rage and recovery

you will not take this rage from me

i deserve to feel this bubbling, all-consuming rage

at men that take the deepest insecurities lurking in my mind

that i so willingly offered up to their coarse hands

and throw them aside like yesterday's paper. 

i deserve the burning, aching, painful lump in my throat

for giving mortal men with mortal hands

access to the front steps of my temple

because men like this know no softness

men like this know nothing more than 

drawn swords and overflowing goblets

and the harsh bark of laughter 

that follows my footsteps through the dark hallways.

and i deserve to feel the hot, wet symbol of anger and hurt

because my entire life has come to nothing more than

one clumsy infant after another knocking over all my treasures

and leaving their handprints all over the glass of my heart.

and after they take these priceless possessions

and they use them to quench their undying thirst for attention,

they throw them in the dirt and crush them with the heel of their boots,

and they move on to the next temple with the next treasures

and never stop to wonder what their dirty fingerprints did

to a temple that only ever wanted to be a soft place of

comfort and peace and maybe, 

one day,

love. 

but mortal men know no boundaries 

and their hunger is never satisfied, 

no matter how many priceless treasures they annihilate 

in their path of destruction.