Bleeding Warrior

The first blow surprises. It doesn't scar.  The first blow bruises. My soul, now, purple and green and tender. But the first blow is just that. The first.

The names are loud, adjectives. Definitions, images, pictures. A portrait of my unworthiness. Those names, those names are daggers and arrows. The aim, precise. In the mirror, I'm Dorian Gray. No reflection, no beat. Just definitions. Acceptance and shame.

There is time. There is change. There is death. Calm and stale. And putrid air. And skeletons of what I once was. A proper name I don't answer for. But mostly, and always, there are storms. Storms, always brewing. Storms, always raging. Internal, volatile, unpredictable. Personal hurricanes in the desert. Impossible. And everything within is sand and heat and tearless. No shelter.

And aliases, and bruises, and hurt and scars so deep and invisible, all become my truths. Topography of hundreds of blows and come backs and fatigue.

Vices are many, I try a few. I want them. I want to be anything but this self I'm not. Take away the burden of being me, it's a plea.  Blades were supposed to be my relief, a life line, a feel. But they are just messy. Nonsensical. Shallow cuts on a skin so callused. Superficial marks of an intangible pain. Tinting my skin, they touch no deep. 

Crimson fingertips, furious, profane.  Keyboards and phrases. And words, many words rapping my life in periods and metric and stances. Poetry.

Discovery and acceptance and, maybe, vulnerability. Poetry. And I mumble my name. I have a name. Strange sound, welcome sound. A proper name. A warrior's signature.

Written as a gift to this incredibly talented writer, beautiful woman that I have the honor to call a  friend – Stephanie Kusiak -, in celebration the publishing of  her book Lost & Love. Millions of “thank yous” to Steph  for the permission to post it here. 

Loosely based on the characters of Lost & Love – from what my mind thinks is Rachel’s POV

I scream YOU. I scream of the solitude, of absence.

I scream anger. YOU, altruist fool. I scream at YOU.

I scream hard and long and forever. I scream for lost time.

I scream YOUR name like is everything and anything I need.

I scream of longing and wants and surprises.

I scream because YOU are here.

I scream YOUR NAME.

I read YOU. I read YOUR language. Braille.

I read YOU with my fingertips. Digitals discovering skin, tracing pleasure.

I read YOU softly and carefully. I read YOU.

I read YOU South and North. My universe. My ground. My future.

I read YOU. My map, my treasure. Every inch. Geography.

I read YOU mine.

I read YOU out loud.

I write YOU.

I write YOU with my tongue. I write YOU in symbols and numbers.

I write YOU, my alphabet.

I write YOU promises and curses. I write YOU, my will, my testament.

I write YOU of loss and pain and of YOUR stupid sacrifice. I write YOU scars.

I write YOU of encounters and hope.

And we write dialects together. We only understand it.

I write YOU in my life.

I sing YOU. I sing YOUR NAME.

I sing YOU because YOU are notes, and melodies and lyrics.

I sing YOU, muffled, hot, wild, sweet.

I sing YOU and my mouth is full of YOU.

I sing YOU. I sing YOU praises while lips trace mounts and peaks and valleys.

I sing YOU. I sing YOU. I sing whispers and promises.

I sing YOU welcome.

I sing YOU home.