so I become this wrought iron
that I have forged with my own two hands.
I sharpen myself,
tip to hilt.
but
my mouth,
the very blade that can cut the sky,
chose to speak in a healers' tone instead.
I remind myself
of the violence it took
to become 
this gentle.
this cup of earth in my hands,
with home beneath
my fingernails.
I remind myself
what it means to be
pierced to the marrow
and 
still remain a soft place to land.

I fell in love with
this fragile leaf of thought,
this lined history 
that has seen more sunrises,
heard more of nature's stories,
and has given more life
to anything I say with my chest.

I barter this jagged blade 
of bottled rage
for all the years stolen by 
it's tip,
still fresh with life and flesh.
I lay rest
the growl of night
and pay respect to its esse by
celebrating its demise,
forever holding its hand

there will be no more stones
formed on my lips,
no more agony painted
when I bare my teeth.
I will bury the grit
of my anger, salt the earth 
around it
and sing hymns 
of a merciful existence.
I will spill alters 
into the air that the Gods will covet.

I will turn to hands
that dance with a certain
flutter atop piano keys,
my body,
just a gentle sway in the breeze,
and on my face,
you will witness both nothing
and everything.
such conviction in my eyes,
my entire pilgramage with intent
but so effortlessly made.
a full life carved from stone
made from potions the renaissance dreams of,
bearing marks of a successful tragedy. 

and joy will not flicker in the dark of night,
no,
but radiate to each fold of the universe
and the next
and the next, 
and the next, still.

it is not letting love in,
rather letting it out.
this caged beast,
this thunderstorm,
this deafening orchestra.
and on the bed of my last breathes,
I leave you
EVERYTHING I have,
everything I am.
a montage of memory when love was wild and alive