He exposes me for the fraud that I am,
sees me closed up in closets
separated from the rest of the world by habits
developed in the shadows beneath my eyes.
He bears no resemblance to my father
but rips away the clothes of my soul all the same,
exposing an imposturous sanity that was bred by the sperm of insanity,
born to a gulf stream,
washed in sacrifice and rubbed raw by the rags of my Mother's past.
He reaches beneath layers of unspoken rage,
twists free my heart's song; beautiful music that cannot
be heard through worldly speakers,
lyrics sung in a non-tongue,
a plethora of non- sequential sounds expressing a yearning,
a passion for the knowledge of true self.
My heart became a widow the night my innocence was murdered.
And though ages have passed,
I feel him witnessing the tragedy as if he were a wall in my room,
painted Pink for the little girl,
Blue for her sorrow.
He knows that I am an angel in distress
and loves me anyway.
He holds me
though my wings loose in his bed leaving nightmares beneath his pillow,
echoing the ghostly footsteps of unrest and I...
I...can only present a gift of borrowed loyalty,
fragments of what I have known,
tendrils of realities imagined and
OH God (!) you art in Heaven!
He loves me anyway.