Heated to glowing liquid,
you form yourself
with proximate air —
sometimes artisan breath, loosed —
considering character and function
through moments damaged
by your errant filter.
Erring. Errant. You loved
the shiny things you didn’t see
but dreamed of out of their clothes
as you burned their skin
with white-hot, focused affection
and dirges masquerading as
hymns to her soul,
I loved your truest art before noticing the burn,
your blinded psyche on my tortured soul,
burn magnified by sunlight you praised but could not see.
You composed hymns that rang true in self images
aching from their own afflictions.
They were convinced though you are a separate world turning,
with haphazard awareness
of skin seared by your deed or anyone’s,
or the creeping cold following as you love
through painful filter.
What you don’t know shatters you.
As your pieces scattered,
glittering in intermittent light,
your shiny things struggled, each in their own time,
in varying states,
each one burned before she knew
and living to tell,
each left holding a brittle, cooled shard
we can never expunge,
whether we want it or not,
none of us left with a whole to understand
or fortify a future on bare feet.
Perhaps you are barest among us,
vacillating, again molten.
Pained reflection and splintered facts
alter your shape, though it still favors the old,
as a shiny thing passes and pauses to hear
you beckon her trust with a new hymn,
composed in fresh markings and exhalations,
your expectant prayers, for art’s sake
and a life lived in the one fluid piece that you dream.
May this one continue to shine, unfiltered.
I want to hate her, and you,
as I am here bleeding from
life’s cruel reason, shown to me.
She watched as I tried, saw my tears, listening close enough to touch —
but instead, I’ll pretend to save myself,
and pray that her belief in secret magic be rewarded,
despite the advantage only she has had, which she ignores,
her knowledge of me burnt, shard in hand.