bareness

i.

fuck lust

I weep in the sun—I do;
this has been the warmest summer
of my inhospitable life—I confess,
and I do not know what to do
with this orangery behind my eyes,
the body of the sun, its weight,
fiery in my palms, my own hot pebble,
my candle light, a tender thing of my own.

These are my hours:
I burn my lungs as the sun swallows
my skin, featherbrained like I am.
I read modern letters of young men
reined by lust, addressed to me,
and I am disgusted if this is what
life is, what the face of my dream
looks like, open and breathing,
thick in brushstrokes.

Why is lust only temporary
and why do I crave it so?
I have never, not once,
held life in my hand.
Why am I repulsed by it?

I tremble in the sun,
my body sensitive to the
touch of pain upon my heart,
to its fist, knuckles ivory.
I have opened the coat of
my moonwashed fairytales
for his nightmare-startled eyes.
Why have I done that?

I hurt in the sun—I do,
and I do not know the reasoning
behind these soiled teardrops.
How colorful they are,
having been seeped through
by paintbrushes bringing
my life to canvas.

I lift my eyes to Jesus
and beg Him to unbind me
from this midnight blue—
and He does,
smoothing down my hair.
Clean in his eyes,
new,
full of different life.

Orange
and yellow,
scented by rosy petals.

♡