As Saints Step Out of Their Wings

6 Jan

I don’t want to be my struggle any longer.

I want to shed struggle like saints step out of their wings.

Leaving martyrdom and the expectation of good deeds

like clothing strewn across the floor,

discarded

for a night of passion.

 

Giving it all up to be as human as humanly possible.

 

I knew sainthood briefly, but only as a once upon a time.

It’s a tale I’ve long forgotten,

and yet my heart still reads my reality

as if it has the chance of deciphering its lines.

I long for the truth of what I am.

 

Purity is not what I search for.

I hold enough misdoings to fill the pasts

of a dozen crooked men left unredeemed.

I need no new beginnings,

only moments fixed in the present

absent of the memory of having

been.

Been somewhere. everywhere. nowhere you’d want to be.

Been somebody’s. everyone’s.

Been nobody’s. not even my own.

Been something. mother. daughter. sister. friend. lover.

Been nothing. whore. drop out. last memory before sunrise. someone you’d want to forget.

Been everything I never wanted to be.

Been hungry. poor. addicted.

Been tired. angry. jealous.

Been hurt. dejected. lost.

Been oppressed. beaten. raped.

Been the oppressor. the manipulator. the user.

Been nowhere that I’ve looked.

 

I long to BE

without being lagged down by the weight

of having been.

 

I long to be naked,

like the skeletal frames of trees.

Wooed by the cold tongue of autumn,

a new season demanded their leaves.

and they left them.

Left them to dance in unforgiving winter winds.

Swaying in the moonlight,

like exposure is ceremony.

Like the weight of life lifted from their limbs

let them             live.

 

I ask to be,

a spirit in the moonlight,

trusting in its innate beauty,

I mean really fucking trusting the truth

enough to let go

to dance naked in the winds.

 

 

 

With love,

Helen K

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