Sometimes we have
to move beyond the full
length mirror, the curled
hair, the made up face,
the audience waiting
for a grand illusion.
We’re all an imperfect play,
hoping someone will take
note of the things we leave
out. See beyond the war paint
and hot iron, and find enchantment
in a confusing plot. We want someone
to love our secrets, our darker selves as they
tumble off the stage, stained
crimson from the fall, to love
our grief, our less than moments
where we dance over our own shadow, into chaos.
Someone who’d traded their own conflicts
and essentials with us, take our hand,
pull us up, and show us something generous,
pure and beautiful.
Incomplete, but together we
walk into the night,
all our bitter truths in the wind.
We journey on, our own fallen civilization
of happenstance romance. Finally, understanding
this is love, this is love the way the broken do it.