Feet planted in your demanding: all the ego of the universe buried like a hatchet in the back of your humanity. The mockery you wield is an ungainly weapon against your transparency, the guts you spill in this war on intimacy your own. Your offensive salvo, like anger, a secondary response to the shiny, twisted scars you earned in ignorance and idealism. Love is a battlefield, n’est-ce pas?

Wounded boys wearing armor into the bedroom to conquer the altar they built in their Mother’s image: how we have all failed you with our generosity, our abundance, our flaws, our cunts.

You just needed a god with the unconditional clarity of a man who has done no wrong to absolve you of the dirty earth you buried yourself in, the heated sin of a woman’s bloody work.

How thin the air on the pedestal erected to the man you won’t forgive yourself for failing to be- a leviathan bested by universal woe, human being was never enough, and if no man was an island then no man would you be. The melancholy marrowed in your bones was built for creation if adeptly controlled, but here you are. Failing to be a maestro.

Wake up, asshole. You’re a corrupted ocean choking the life out of your inevitable expansion- a hell of a man, the burning crucible for better souls, broken into bitter pieces of a once brilliant whole.

We have been more subtle than our excess, your isolation versus my sex- unfortunately I’m no more a demon than you are a demi-god. My fight flayed defenses built before consciousness came online, shattered into a fire sale of salvation for those struggling to stand after their own fall. It’s unnerving to find such a gentle generosity rooted in the guts I’ve spilled so messily, the ease with which I learned how to forgive your humanity. In this concussive vulnerability I am the feast asking nicely that you not give in to your defeat.

Wake up, asshole.