The next 4 years will be tenanted by my soul-squeezing attempt at learning
assimilating the theory of taking my losses and naming it tenderness
conjuring spontaneous combustion upon my raw yet designed flesh
until it turns a lambent, ambrosian, and above all perfect medium well.
The heart is a fleshy peach tucked inside the left chamber of the chest
which when set ablaze will drop golden brown caramel
in between others’ teeth it is sweeter than red gum honey
only in my own fangs it is rotten.
I sometimes question the capability of my skeleton to contain it all
the beef-bound frustration, the omnipresent self-dubiety
the slow and agonizing transmogrification into a water tank of tears
the 25/8 sexotheque playing arias and orchestral compositions.
I sometimes ponder about the word “tenderness”
because it indisputably encapsulates my most-of-the-time human presence
it could be a paragon of virtue, a sickening, nauseating kindness
or it could be a deficiency, a weakness, a soft spot defenseless to heartache.
I know it all adds up to something, but I don’t know what
no formula of soul searching can chase the revelation into a corner
these days I’ve been feeling at fault over everything and everyone
be contingent on strangers, be forked tongue with friends
be discontent for the family, be abhorrent to myself.
How painful does it get before it gets numb?
Should I always process or spear depression with a shimmering, radiant glow?
Though I am curious for the next fracture, I am also subsumed with fear
I guess it’s my nature to be my own lion pit, to be my own redwood in a thunderstorm
to be my own poison lacing my bread, to be my own ancient torture device
to be my own stake, and my own pyre, and my own torch
to be as equally imperious as I am tender.
