Home > Poetry > hungry for the wreck

hungry for the wreck

Some call it weakness,
this brazen tendency
toward vulnerability; fragility
worn like a new dress,
a heart that bends
and promises, gives
and waits, with nothing
but stars for expectations.

Despite false perceptions,
openness is not a fault line,
or a crooked compass,
or a price; it is strength
that resembles forgiveness,
it is passion that resembles
sacrifice; it is love
that only ever resembles itself.

Today, winter is waiting
for a reason not to exist; its fingers
are dragging the earth
like a wolf hunting for spring –
a reminder that every moment
can be something else,
if you’re hungry enough.

Tomorrow, the moon
will ask the world for everything,
and it does not matter
how small your courage is,
only that you have. It does not matter
how deep your fears are,
only that you deny them –
everything, lately, a lesson
that cautions against foolish acceptance.

Unclench your heart –
it is not a fist. Unstick
your jaw – gospels
are not grief. Unbind
yourself – promises
are not meant to be prisons.

Consider this:
maybe need
is having a back alley brawl
with want – or maybe
it doesn’t realize
it’s fighting itself,
and everything is bruised
and sparking.

There are days
full of ice, waiting
for a word of flame. There are
hearts full of love, waiting
for a touch of grace. There are
always reasons
to wake up ravenous
for someone else’s strict
prayers, but that which feeds you
should never leave you empty.

Some will see vulnerability
as less; some will see fragility
as a lack of faith; some will
offer the word survival
as a convenient noose, desperate
for your to hang yourself –
but there is no power
in keeping to your knees
for the sake of someone else’s
religion, and fire
is a better fate than frozen.

Remember, remember this:
even wings become weapons
against gravity, and falling
sometimes feels like freedom
even when it hurts.

Love sometimes means
burning your own house down
and marveling at the ashes;
there no getting away
clean, but you forget
how strong scar tissue is –
and that there’s always beauty
in the wreck.
Categories: Poetry
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