A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy!

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.

I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer.

Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day.

And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!

Wear shows along each seam.

Stitches obtained through toil

and sewn with needles of obligation

well-intended for those in need.

How could her nimble fingers

stay still and silent

in the face of their distress? 

Toll-taking efforts
cast with love

nonetheless burden her shoulders

and incite pain from long hours

spent to ease the lives

of those she loves. 

Woven too is her hard-earned

impermeable shield-
her hard-learned revelation
that she can dwell free

within her mantle.

I have a desire to be free in ways that would destroy me, in ways that aren't accepted in this world. I have a need to be free in ways that don't even exist, from things that are such parts of my continued existence as a being that to get what I need would be to cease. I am a lover who has found nothing to take the love I have. I cannot stand to be near anyone, but I crave closeness in such a desperate, painful way that it controls me. I am a logical, orderly, sound, carefully crafted mind, trapped inside the chaos of a soul that I cannot be sure was ever made to withstand the kind of feelings it itself produces constantly. Without the handicap of my humanity, I would be free, disentangled from this web of useless little things I care about. The one that trusses up my legs and trips me and no matter how I try to find the pattern in it, reason has no power against this trap. Power has no power against this snare. I can solve anything, escape anything, survive anything, disassemble anything. But I can't solve myself. And I feel like a wasted opportunity, a consciousness that maybe COULD actually do something meaningful, tragically held back by the hitchhiker of a soul that has come along for the ride to slash the tires. I want to be free of impossible things. But I am an impossible thing, and every morning I wake up and the little part of me that knows things whispers, "You will never be free." What a way to start the day.

Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.