Being loved for me
Without expectation or fantasy
Seems difficult to believe
With my experience of me.
Not so much a wreck,
I survive and reflect
On which parts feel neglect
Like an Art without affect.
My solace is stained,
In my solitude contained
With a sadness ingrained
And expression estranged.
I mumble and shake,
Needs pulsing and awake,
Demanding that I break
Whatever is at stake.
I’ve worn out these flaws,
Dissected their causes,
Accepted my losses,
But still wrapped in their familiar claws.
