You may tell me you love me
That at least is true
Though better for you if you didn’t.
But don’t tell me I’m beautiful as I am
Or whole or worthy
Your lips are too well formed. Don’t hollow them.
Your saying is nothing but winded wishes
They can’t reach the clawing ache
The raven hunched easy on my skull
He laughs at your—positivity
You cannot save me with feathered brushes
Fight for me demon fire with sun’s glory,
Whispered blackness with the
Sharp, molten haven of
stained glass striving
paint or sing or scream me out
but don’t mouth frail nothings or
expect tossed opinions to rescue me.
A drowning man needs
The strong arm of
A savior who has leapt into the waves.
Even if he fights the rescuing pull
He needs no affirmations when stark self-sight
Invades his lungs shriller than self-help’s brazen whine.
Grant me then this mercy,
Of a blade at need and a bandage in time—
For black truth is brighter than paper dreams.
If I must cling to the storm to find its Master
Do not tear at my failing grip.
His saying will make me whole
His hand will bind the heart I lost to him
Hold me then until that time
And give comfort that fires in my ribs
And surges, even if acid, through my veins.
I ask you this only.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful as I am
As you love me,
Tell me of coming visions.