It is no easy feat
Holding the space for two
In heart.
Let alone, mine different.
A muse of another kind.
Not just two....
But so many.
Vast.
Yet Love,
I had always kept my inner circle,
Rather miniscule, and bound tight.
A few got in, their own volition,
My defenses bare as a woman.
Their manhood towering over me.
Divine Reverence.
No...
easy feat
at all...
Cracking open your chest, to expand and make room,
Where sometimes
There was no room at all.
No...
No easy feat.
As worn to my death,
Will be the never perfectly healed
Ache of it all.
The sweet fragments,
and memories
That tinge so deep...
Lodged chards of bones,
Theirs now placed in me.
They have become embossed
On my Primordial DNA,
Carried
Harbored.
Forever and into infinity.
It is an ache of another kind.
The consumption of bittersweet.
It is the form taken of
Experiencing the paradox of pain.
Lush against our skin, salivating,
Surrendered, bare, vulnerable
And there's nothing one can do.
Juggling hearts.
That's what I do. Said not unhumbly at all...
But rather it's a bare, raw, and lonely skill...
the Mother of all Paradox.
I cry, and I rain, and I bash, and I bleed...
As any
Because we all know....
It fucking hurts.
No...
It is no easy feat at all.
Waking up to the char of my own flame.
The pain of singed and grown back wings,
Skin tarred and feathered up.
The thrash of a new beating and molten heart.
And then the death.
And then the dark.
Thus was the tale
Of those,
Mused in Juggling hearts.
And often do we dream of our own.
A home,
That might
Just stay.
That is where we,
People like me
Find our own Reverence.
A home,
In staying.
One worth raising.
One shared.
It was never a skill I wanted,
The feat, I'd have to endure
Just a destiny I was born to.
And just the consequences that it lures.
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