We walk through these seasons
of blossoms falling bruised at our feet.
Moonflowers blooming just in the moments
too dark to see them.
I tire of the love handed to me, even when it is all I want.
I stand in the shadow of myself and feel defeated,
trapped by devotion urging me to be better.
I don’t know how.
You hand me your Psalter of hope to soothe my wounds:
it stings instead. Slaps
with the knowledge of inadequacy,
an indecent amount of hope.
I lack the will to carry myself further,
asking to be buried where I stand
in this garden of my soul where it is still winter,
like the Selfish Giant’s before he let the savior in.
The sun stretches out across skies made for dreaming,
while I live in nightmares of blinding color.
And love feels like a cage
forcing me to be kind
I am shamed by the care for me as I let myself
guilty of being broken, and grace strips me naked.
I shiver in the sight of those that cherish me,
find myself wishing,
they would just stop