The Craving Of Touch

The craving of touch The colour of the soul dark, jammy, plum coloured like bruises from my last surgery criss crossed and running the length of my face, neck and chest. These bruises on my body hide (masks) the pain ( fearlessness ) in my eyes.

I cry, always, the known, walking, leaking tear duct. These days, I allow the tears to spill, unchecked from my eyes; waterfalls slamming down my chin and pooling at my feet, from years of having to be too strong, stuffing everything in. Of being the "man" y'all always wanted. I never wanted him, never was him, but was locked in my cage. I, too, know why the caged bird sings, though, in a different way.

The self hate - blood red, hues, green with hatred, red with envy comingling with blue hues of depression and lack of self knowledge. All I wanted was to be held with passion - red, purple, and orange bursts of colour, to be told, "you are loved for exactly who you are, and I crave you, all of you, imperfectly standing in front of me tonight."

Without shame, with desire - dripping sweet and delicious - yellow honey. Love changes colour again. Now, red, blue, deep purple, maybe a little green. Liquid courage working its way through my veins, remembrance of past discussions, stabbed me like daggers, so long ago now, but, begging for another chance, another infusion - strawberries, raspberries plums (again.) A final, commingling, positive, conversation filled first with regret, then ending with a promise. Answers coming fast and true (hopefully.) I have been hiding shame, pain, and disillusionment. A secret held - a secret truth all these years behind a veil of pain and shame that could never be forgotten.

Now, I rise like a phoenix, from the ashes.

of the love you burned down all those years ago.

I know I cannot forget the pain. It is scarred across my bruised soul. But I can try, we can try. It is the only way. Let us try again, to resurrect what once was a given.