To See and Be Seen

And who would not want to interpret what is filed deep within the recesses of my salvaged mind,

or sludge through the residual magenta choking the valves of my somehow still beating heart?

Who would not want to count the reverberating seconds within me as they tick and flutter away,

to covet the sound of my rattling lungs, gasping for another singular moment here, alive?

And who would not want to use their finger as a brush to trace the delicate blues that decorate

every curve of my mortal flesh, my dying, mortal flesh, beautifully married to my tired bones,

until she suddenly decides, well, she is tired, too, and she retreats, sloths back home like the savage she is?

Ungrateful.

Who could ever survive death's betrayal, like that of your very own flesh, unto your very own soul?

Well, then, are you so offended by the beautiful hair, that adorns here, and there, anointing me:

Creature,

whose footprints rattle the soil beneath her, knowing It, too, once walked upright here?

Whose womb and supple breast are the reason for the existence of the entire universe?

Whose gaze ignites fires in the hearts of men, and who is the beginning and end to all creation?

Tell me, who would want to cover my pointed shoulders, adorned with freckled constellations

so that we all may pretend we are not equals to the stars here, who are fixed in time, forever,

all made and shaped in the very, exact same stardust as the next, none more or less worthy than the rest?

But tell me, beyond that, beyond my Humanity, can you look into the night sky and see the spirit

made of a mixture from Mother Nature's pantry, raging and full of fury, here, inside of me?

And so would you not kiss my face when I am unwell, and resent me until my very last breath?

Would you not love me with your entire immortal being, you disgusting mortal wreck? _