Ripe & Tender Brokenness

I give you my dirty, I give you my broken — sometimes I forget I give you my sunsets, too. My straight teeth, my ripe heart, my willing body.

It’s easy enough to tell you no. To ask what are you doing? To wonder how could you love me? I get stuck on the images — I think of my lungs as the watery bottoms of old, used ashtrays.

But I laugh long and wild. I show my joy for anyone who cares to look. I curl my lips like other women do their hair. And when you kiss me, all gold and perfect, all Indian summers and promise, it’s hard not to feel ugly.

But I forget that you see me sleeping, softly breathing bad dreams into beauty. I forget that you watch me reading — that you hear me singing quietly to myself. I forget that you were looking into my eyes the second I realized I loved you.

So, I give you my dirty and I give you my broken — but I give you more than that. I fold my hands into origami roses and feed you amorous haikus like chocolate. I give you wonder, and I give you tender, and I give you love.

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1 comment
  1. A beautiful poem for love. We must give to receive. Old age had taught me. Happiness of the number two is the key to life.

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