i came to you just as a child:
my bones were soft; my heart was wild.
i opened up myself to you
and gave you all i knew was true
but truth was not enough for you.
just as i was just wouldn't do.
you opened me, began to cut,
leaving your mark in scars for what?
the sutures healed eventually;
my porous bones began to be
stronger, taller, more mature,
affection became more obscure.
what makes you think you have the right
to touch me only when we fight
to edit, snip, trim, and backspace
with one-way entrances to grace?
but still i loved and still i tried
to keep my heart a tender bride,
and still i love and still i try
to keep the promises that i
have made to you and make to you.
i pray that God will make me true.
you come to me, explosively
i'm wrong, and comprehensively.
you angrily erupt (i quake):
“why did the surgery not take?”
or silently abandon me–
leave me right here in the debris.
my tissue's gone, stripped to the bone.
i am left speechless and alone–
unseen, unheard, unloved, undone–
just when my healing had begun.
and yet i rise, still beautiful,
unchanged after the crucible.
my tenderness is still within
the morrow of this skeleton.