Personal Engagement

my crisis, a wound I love to lick

to keep the skin from scabbing over

ever wetted by my lying tongue

skin peeling back, revealing tender layers

where healing and hurting are the same

I am ashamed of myself because I do not understand who I am

this sore; ever fresh, never fixed

is my little-self okayed by yours

in a mini skirt and heals

to attract attention

that I don’t even want; but am compelled

by the desire of catching myself 

between wanted and admired

the grief of what I am not

but what I yearn to be

that I cannot define

and that rushes and bleeds out of me

through words and hesitations

and anger and frustrations

a lonely and torn warrior that cries

in sorrow at every victory

where are the others

cut into pieces like me?

I once read a poem

saying that we need the space between

so light can get in

how terrifying that

my illumination may display

all that I cannot explain

waving the flag of confused comfort

seems like playing both sides.

and i am, and so are you

whenever we engage in

naming that which cannot be named.




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