caught constant on a knife-edge of leaving
mid-step, screaming obscene for an outlet
(self-harm shadowed in sweetness)
I opened a book and emptied myself,
and I've yet to regret it.
~
weeks beat by like the hearts we lost
or pawned or stole, traded for transience,
succour in a needle's short-lived sting,
souls sold, suffering selves swallowed whole,
an agony acquired through limitless desire.
~
cigarette smoke mingles with swirling snow
(my mouth kissed the sky) and abruptly,
suddenly no longer numb, I wonder:
is this the miracle I missed?
and know it means I'm healing,
caged, but bursting beyond my bones I cannot bring myself to feel confined.
~
our joined hands clench, circled serene
in prayer, roused by the act of conquering
blithe servile selves no longer thrall
broken backs stretched across our sins
for so long our footsteps fumble, but
these paid prophets carry our fragile forms
forward, into the waiting arms of forever.
©sweepingly
S