Oh, human; so many types of you,
I could not fathom my fate if I were to
long so much, work so hard and obtain so little,
facing the sun while
straddling the moon like you do.
You like to be irresistible in every
single, tiny little thing you do, don't you;
from the way you part your lips and smile,
to the way you hold out your rough, aching hands towards me,
planting a tender kiss on my forehead
and asking for my soul in return.
You like to stir up my mind, imploring one thing with me
but then diverging off to explore a
whole entirely different one altogether,
all alone and cold, dripping white glistening
trails of stars all over my arms.
You are always telling me that you need time
to forgive yourself,
to forgive the shards of broken, diamond glass
you pull out of your pockets
and hurl at the ground you tread on,
forgive the blood red roses and green tangled thorns
you wear a top of your head,
blood trickling down curls of ivory hair,
like streaks of winter cherries
flowing down to your shoulders.
They say you like to dance,
stomping all over paradise with
black, jagged leather boots,
and whirling mountains around your fit torso,
gripping the blowing wind
in your arms and forcing it to carry you
as gigantic as you are,
because other things need to
experience oppression too.
Suddenly you are explosively loud when you
claim you're okay/alright,
like those few words hold captive your purpose
of existing beneath the stars,
when all you ever wanted was to be one.
And when you're laughing in your bed,
legs tangled with evergreen whips of dried woven grass,
chest hidden underneath a blanket of cool, violet-blue dawns,
the sight of you is so beautiful and painfully wretched
that I am torn over just laying down with you
or hurdling you off my mountain of life.
If there ever was such a confusion
that loved so passionately, breathed so calmly,
and raged so defiantly
at the mere thought of just existing,
it would be such a creature
as a human.