Poetry

Bleed

In order to know someone,

bleeding yourself out into a cup

and letting them drink it down

is sometimes the only way.

It lets them taste the salt in your wounds

and the nectar in your view

of the intricacies of life,

spinning and turning

through every step you’ve taken

to reach this point.

Let them see your shackles, your restraints,

and trust them

when even if they say they don’t have the power to break them,

they can still aid you

as you rid them yourself.

It may take decades, aeons,

a million fractals of your stitched and glued and re-stitched heart,

but they’ll be there through all of it.

Just give them opportunity to take that first sip.

Poetry

Bound.

I jumped over a hill today.

One of those great rolling ones

that merge with the ocean

just out of sight.

 

I did it in one spring.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

 

I don’t want to talk about the chains.

 

They wrap around my arms,

squeezing

the flesh

so that it bulges.

 

I used

to point at them,

rattle the links in their faces.

But always

they would claim

they couldn’t see.

 

Now I stare into the distance,

leaping across fields

and dipping my toes

into the cool water of the lake.

 

They can’t see the chains;

they can’t see my escape.

 

The air

might not

be fresh on my journeys.

I don’t mind.

 

There’s freedom there,

and I claim it.