Deserved

The precedent is palpable, unsettled—
and as for my claim on a place in this world;
the only place that I can hold is that which burns.

My soul bleeds—liquid heartache
brands scars beneath flesh,
falling heavy down preordained tracks.
I am marked—ghost of
weaponless wounds;
testament to my weakness.
The curve of this unsmiling cheek:
tears scald my skin, penance
for too-bitter blood sacrifice.

The goblet is raised.
You drink from this; this well—my
insatiable agony. You are drunk on
this something—an intoxicant
like no other.

I wear your heart on my sleeve—drawn,
crucified—while an echo of this
ashen spirits’ living-pain lingers
in the organ. Here, in heavy
un-burdenment on my skin.

Yes, your sacrifice mimics mine.
(Challenging, surpassing.)
Somehow—unquestioningly, a fierce
and blinding loyalty that burns
other, different, welded white-hot
lovelike angel-agony—
you bear it too, bear the burden of my soul
in stoic silence—a tumescent torment.
A hurt so heavy I weep (yet sing) to see
you wield it, watch you share it.

For each spasm of agony brings blazing
a small death, and in that (oh! fearful failing)
a slight reprieve.

My soul-fire cannot be tracked to origin,
never cured—but still you search,
(as though antidote would be within your grasp)
a reaching gaze, to handle
my horror-hardened heart with
immeasurable compassion.

You reach deep into my weathered, withered self,
brushing aside bruised, battered armour.
Gentle eyes cradle mine (more broken), hence
oceans cross arms with oceans—still
you share the strength of your smile:
a service granted to me—for me—
at only my word.

(If I asked you for your life, would you so readily give it?)

There’s beauty in your smile.
Method to madness—kindness delivered,
but not yet earned.
You are beautiful.

I know these irises. Color-cold. Passion-hot.
There is understanding in your fixation
—an understanding that shakes me.
Fresh tears (soothing now, not scalding—if
only you knew now how you have moved me),
fresh they fall:
reforming, remaking me.
A choking gasp as the warmth of your
scintillatingly mutual suffering
creeps bone-deep, feeding my
then-lingering life.

Your reaching grasp takes my heart,
your selfless soul steals away the perforating pain.
The embrace in your gaze
wrenches me—unwillingly—to my feet.
Your concern lances an alarming angry-delight.
It soothes and steals,
perhaps someday—heals.

The hurt here is not gone—not at all, not ever.
But you are there, you are hurting with me.
An unspoken truth lies between us—
the dying will never cease,
but the comfort in this:
each time I die, you die by my side.
Your love is haunting, undeserved.

My anguish—mine—traitorous body-tremble.
You sweep away the last of water-weakness,
and living begins again.

These things you have expressed:
stress. And fear—for me;
not yet unbroken, but your fortitude alone
may have me there—no disrepair—
soon enough.

I do not deserve the kindness
from this—your
exquisite soul.
Cannot yet grasp the words and feelings
you have utilized to recraft me:
to survive.

It strikes me then,
a bittersweet, beautiful, mourning truth:
I live;
each breath is owed to you.