should curiosity strike

a tapestry of my old words has been posted by the ever wondrous v over on her blog at a butterfly in my hair

golden

lick the blood from their daggers.

you are golden.

listen harder to the bombs in your chest.
they are golden.

even if they were to cut out your tongue,

gouge out your eyes,

your heart would still see

and your life would be the poem.
you are golden.

and what it all boils down to is this..

and what it all boils down to is this..i marvel. i offer my heart in cupped hands to life and say "eat" and know it wont flinch when in return i show my teeth. i marvel at the world interpreted through our senses. and more, at the fact that music can be read. red like a heart dissected, but impossible to break into chapters. i marvelled when he said that "the sky was moving in two directions", but the rock stood firm beneath his feet. marvelled at everything your name means; at why i believe in things i cannot touch. we are each of us seeds, thinking ourselves trees. do not promise that which you cannot live through. offer thanks to all the sources from which you grow. stretch and grow into yourself and out of your skin.

and lately

i question divisions and their necessity;
the reasons behind their origins
when all i see is the point where all things meet.

i tend towards tails and odd numbers,
and those that can. and do.

i burn.
blood and oils together,
wondering if it'll help.

the spectator and the spectacle
hand stitching memories of myself as child bride
and looking, as always,
for the beauty that's less pretty, less obvious;

like that found here,
fighting through it's prison of ribs;
prism splitting light
on my weathered soul with it's soft cracks
and such small beautiful wrinkles.

an exception
to my rule of not doing this.

but my god.

i couldn't not.