canonical hours

“you smell like the ocean. clean, crisp and salty.”

“i love the way our sex smells, it’s epic…”

my husband, the poet…my savior

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I’m not gonna keep quiet anymore. 

I’m ready to tell my story. 

It’s not epic, it’s just a story. 

A prayer.

A hymn.

A whisper.

A scream.

When you’re young, you feel like whatever is happening or has happened to you, is unique. That no one could ever understand, or sympathize. That you’ll have to just carry the guilt and the shame, until a person comes along that can help carry the load of it, the heart of it. 

Life moves along and it spreads in your body, veins inside veins. You feel like the next thing that births inside you is a version of yourself that you start to recognize less and less. 

A split. 

A crack in the dermis. 

This new you is reckless, a wanderlust. Splitting open her heels for the sake of feeling something. So that she can learn to walk upright. 

Crawling to be seen.

New and wet, a church bell between the legs.

Crying at each strike.

A funeral.

Driving out the demons with each chime.

A steeple to hang from.

A sacrifice.

Flew over rainforests, watched them shrink, as I shrank. 

Misplaced.

Émigré. 

Colors turned sour.

Windows fogged by sighs and stitches. 

Pen in hand like a machete.

Clearing open overgrown trails that lead back to the wounded, angry animals that inhabited my temper.

Kisses like hot bullets.

Tongue snakes.

Rusted teeth.

Acrid spit.

Love seeps through the wounds, infects. 

Slithers in.

Slips out.

Over and over and over…

There are decades of open arms, hard cocks, nice words. 

Theatre.

Holding space.

Holding space for mirrors. 

Reflections of lost innocence.

When he comes, he is pure light.

Pure white.

An abyss of resplendence.

A sanctuary.

After miles of roving. 

Crying.

Bleeding.

Dying.

I’m home.

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