These Lines

These lines,

rebellious markers of the places

I refused to break,

this museum of myself.

My hands become curators

running over skin in the dark.

At these lines,

fingers pause in caution

armed with curiosity

at those frailest of sights,

the thin and gossamer veil

blowing like a curtain over

who we believe ourselves to be,

and who we really are.

These lines

where my soul grows so steeped in love,

heavy like sacks of sand,

it almost bursts from my flesh,

skipping into puddles and leaves and the blacks of your eyes.

These lines,

where my bondage is weakest

but our belonging is strongest.

Here at the border

of village and forest,

the known and the true,

between us and Her.

These lines tell our story,

the ways we split apart,

to let all we have die –

to return to Her.

 

Part of you remembers how to read it,

and it scares you.

Your spine was never built for this,

like mine;

the legends you read at night

are lived in these lines.

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