I have found the one for whom my soul implores me to be bold.
To step out of this box of self-deprication, so tired and old.
Familiar ***-backwards comforts and promises to self,
to never be sold.
Be sold *****!
Mixed up as he is, he IS it!
Not THE one, for there is no ONE!
This mirage is merely who we pick, to settle down and grow old with.
Who we bestow the honor, to be honored, to be cherished.
With whom we make the most of failed patterns, life's trenches.

He IS it.
Be vulnerable, give it all,
ME, your heart and soul.
If he wants me afterall,
after all mutual deceit, decay,
to be reborn, to rebuild and shine gloriously, in ubiquitous, unified heartbeats..this is love.
No different than any other force of nature, unrelenting.

If his spite denies me,
for all of time,
or at least this life,
I STILL find,
I have lost nothing.
My soul was already lost to him,
so what have I left to lose to him?
Nothing...aside from regret,
eating away at my self-love, my flesh.
I'd rather be full and whole,
in patience, virtue, strength and boundless, understanding love.
I'd rather be all of this,
grown past any dark corner of my soul, grown past any limit I have known before, stretching my hand up to the Gods, flexing the growth of all I have endured.

I love to be who I never was,
rather than a skeleton,
crouching behind a closed door.
A shell for the next man to come, every beautiful gesture inviting moths to perch these broken bones til they fall to dust,
as they did for him,
when he tried reclining into them.
This scene was obscured by a pretty smile, that stood as a remnant of who I was. Glassy eyed mirrors, shining back what might be love, or band-aid'd pride, a shell of who he was. My skin, a tally sheet, record kept of gains and losses. With mournful regret and contempt it'd be again inscribed..if I wandered off, giving up, licking my wounds of pride.

The only way left
to proliferate my cells,
to fill this hole in my chest,
is to give my soul bowed down,
freed from the chains of contempt.
Hold my hand and transcend this madness.
Afterall, you did say you love me. Perhaps you meant it for the fifty-third time. Or turn on your heel and there's reality, circumscribed. Some can say love and never mean it, not even knowing they've lied.