I was hurt,
once upon a time,
and in the years that followed
I dug a hole for myself,
and hid from the world.

But all the lies I told myself
could not make a hovel
into a home,
and all of my hiding
only helped me rot.

Only the wind could blow away
the cobwebs in my head.

Only the rain could wash me clean
of years of accumulated filth.

Only the sun could reignite
the passion in my heart.

And the earth that kept me safe
could stand for me still –
not as walls to hide behind,
but as a firmament beneath my feet,
supporting me on my journey.

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It’s easy to be part of the party,
to match the mood, the tempo, the time,
and let the world swallow you up.

But I am a solitary soul,
and I feel like I don’t fit in,
for though I am kith,
I’m no one’s kin.

The crowd’s no consolation to me,
because a love that demands everything
deserves nothing.

I am my moods,
my tempo and temperament,
perfect in their imperfection,
even when they cannot keep time.

So I take another step
down my pariah path,
unsure where I’m going,
unsure when I’ll get there,
and willing to walk alone
if I must.

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If I ever play the market,
I think I’ll buy time shares,
because everyone I encounter
would love to stay and chat –
if they only had the time.

And if I could monetize that –
all the hours and minutes,
the days and months –
and charge people a premium,
it would be like owning a mint.

Who can find the time?
I hear it all the time.
And maybe I’d be kind to them,
in my financial ambitions,
but I doubt it.

Why would I spare a second
once I’m finally on the top
on any of the people
who had no time for me
when I was on the bottom?

I’ll charge them every cent
that I know my goods are worth
for I learned the value
of kindness, and company,
and spare time, in absentia.

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Empty arms that yearn to be held,
dry lips desperate for a kiss,
meals to be shared,
conversations to be voiced,
sheets to be fought over…

How this single life,
tedious at times,
burns like a hard drink.

And if I treat it like shots,
it is too many,
too much, too soon,
and I regret my actions
come the morning.

But if I nurse it through the night,
like a fine Scotch or Cognac…
Then? Oh my, then…

What exquisite pain.
What a magnificent flame.

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My Favorite Scars are not
from those who loved me dearest,
nor those who held me closest,
but from the ones who taught me the most.

The ones I left…
The ones who left me…
The ones who built me up
before burning down my world.

Because every scar I carry –
every blemish, bruise, and burn –
is married to a memory,
and linked to a lesson.

You helped me grow,
inspired me,
and called me out
on my bullshit.

Meine Lieblings-Narben,
I hold you close to my heart,
and treasure all that we have shared –
the good times, and the bad.

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Dreamy shadows,
smoke and whiskey,
the long, waxing burn
of an evening.

The soft sensation
tingling at the tips of your fingers.
The taste of a kiss
that burns past the dawn.

A lingering memory,
rosy past its bloom.
A night you barely remember.
A night you won’t forget.

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I’m so very tired,
of what I see on TV:
the Adonis, the Adona
prominently displayed.

I do not mean to say
that they are not praiseworthy,
but where are the people
who look like me?

Where are the crows feet,
and the other battle scars of aging?
Where are the acne scars,
and the stretch marks?

Where are the five-o’clock shadows
and the two-day stubble?
Where are the casual clothes –
because fuck this suit and tie.

Instead we are presented with
perfection, waxed and polished,
practiced in the mirror,
and previously recorded
so it could be whitewashed.

Instead they display a still life,
desperately clinging onto life.
But life is movement and change,
and I watch them as I walk by,
smiling at me with the dull eyes of dolls.

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They call me “naked”,
but that is not true.
At best, they see me nude.

All that they can see of my body,
the scars and stretch marks,
no more define me
than would my shadow.

To see me naked
is to look beneath my skin
at the raw, emotional heart
beneath the still facade.

And for all the efforts to strip me down
and set me on display,
they will only ever see a body –
they will never find the real me.

Because I am a party
that is invitation-only,
and it’s hard to earn a ticket
to the symphony of my soul.

So call me what you will,
but know I’ll judge your words,
and if you dig this deep and call me “naked”,
then I think you’re being shallow.

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