Endless Yearning

I am all angles and edges.

Too sharp to be held-

Too jagged to be touched.

I am made of rough, cracking hands,

with restless fingers that tap out unmistakable battle cries--

And Eternally bruised knuckles, knuckles of anger,

Of Self inflicted violence-

Worn like rings.


I am not in your love stories.

I am not the Dark Prince, Hades-

Nor the God of War, Ares.

I am not Achilles and his precious Patroclus.

I am not Apollo and his beloved Hyacinth.

I am a creature of rage-

Born, bled, and bathed in hate,

Cursed only to love what will un-make me.

A twisted parody

of the moth and the flame.


But you, oh my love,

You quell the tempest that rages at the core of my being,

And change it.

Coax it.

Mold it.

Never un-making-

Winter storms into spring rains,

Jagged shards into sea glass.


Would it be, that it were forgiveness

From the gods of love

(Aphrodite. Anteros. Philotes.)

That it is you my skin craves;

For you would understand divine intervention,

But no.

Loving you has always been deliberate.

A fight against my very nature-

A road that leads only to hurt.

My love, I know the ending of this story.


Do you know the morning sun of your soul,

How beautifully it colours the skies,

And the way it does not burn

As candles do?

Do you know the length of your jaw-

And the skin along your neck,

turn battle cries to litanies?

Do you know that the sacred expanse of your shoulders,

Turn rings of violet bruises into blooms of green and yellow petals?


I know--just as surely as I know

that sunsets never looked as beautiful as they do

Now that I know how you adore them--that you

Are far too good for me.

That sanding out my edges won't stop them

From marking your skin.

That the hatred I was forged from

Will always linger as a too-sharp smile.

That the book written in my blood

Is not one of a love story.

But, my love, still I will yearn for you,

With all the tenderness,

And hopelessness,

a creature like me is capable of,

For the alternate is nothing short

than the death of love, itself.


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