The Scar

You held me like I was fragile
close to your chest, a pulsing heart
black raiment hugged my body
my prison and my shield

Would you still want me
if you saw the scars
like leeches patched to my arms
the rippled tiger-stripes
on my legs
seemingly drawn on with a blade
and insanity.

I know you love that Other Person
with the holes in His hands
and the crescent of broken skin in His side;
I know these markings remind you
of love and sacrifice and good things

but is my body good enough?
Will you love me,
knowing these things that I have done
where I have come from
and who I want to be?

Can I come as I am?
Or is my world
too dark and too deep
for you to tread?

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Mr Right.

I knew not where to look
to find Mr. Right.
I made a list of all the preachers,
the Bible study workers,
the guys with nice cars
that gave lifts to older members
the ones who dressed nicely
and let women go first.

It didn’t work, though.
And confusion ensued.

“I feel like,” I said.
“Everyone is together.
Marriage and babies
Young, exciting love.
I know Ecclesiastes
I know there’s a time for
Everything.
But when is my time?”

Then I saw the truth.
Like the under belly of a whale:
smooth and serene on top with
scabs and boils underneath.
The guys who preached on Sabbath
and swore murder on the Sunday;
The Bible studies that were used
for elopements under sheets.
The cars that had housed
drugs, guns and plastic heels.

I saw then that I was seeking
a superfluous thing:
Hiding in a prefab when
a Palace stood ’round the corner.

For now I’ll wait
and learn to love myself again
because my Mr Right
is there.
With a Kingdom just for me.