Frailty

He fondles me with flattery. Violating sacred spaces with lyrical words stolen from the greats. Like a poor, lost puppy, I nip at his heels, waiting for language treated as dinner scraps. It is blasphemy, the sweetest sin. A crime against the secret coven who knows not where I stray.

He teases me with poetry. Delectable sonnets that sing of another's beauty, another who's pure of heart. Is it wrong to imagine myself like this? I am no better than those who primp and prep. Those who mutilate themselves on the outside, hoping to catch a stranger's eye. Am I any different because I hope to ensnare a mind?

I have no hope to write of love. It is far to grand a concept for me to fathom. I know what it's not. I know its poetry has been misunderstood. I have knelt before the saints, tears overwhelming me, felt their warmth wash over me. This is the closet I can come to love. I am blessed to know this much. He would have me believe in the parlour tricks, the nakedness, perhaps this is why he can not write the words himself.

Still, I follow. Hating myself for my vanity. Despising the shallow pangs that come with inattention. Fragile, eggshell self esteem. One minute soaring, only to be crushed under the weight of this strangely poetic indifference.

The sisters would punish me for this frailty. For confessing my ego needs tended. There is only so much good that comes with burning undergarments. And no good can come from mimicking the monsters they hope to defeat.

I desire only the words. Ears to listen. Lips to share. If they desire to linger elsewhere, it is because at heart I am human. The strongest can only survive solitude for so long. 

NH

2013