Tuesday, December 30, 2014

If you were to hold me,

would you hold the was-child me, brown-moon-eyed
even then, beneath Texas Sunheat hotter than a turtle's slick shell on a highway, or would you hold

teenage-me in the corner of that, shoved up against that
wall by my friend's father as he leans in for a kiss and I drip

water from my bathing suit onto the shag carpet, or would you hold me as I tumble--
embryo-me, down the stairs inside my mother, away from his clenched, olive-colored fist,

the peach-light blinking on and off, or, if you were to really hold me, would it be hard for you to accept my shoulder-shudder of not-wanting to be touched after that time teenage-me met that 

40someodd man in a chat-room-box, hold me later after he wouldn't take me home until after I had sex with him, would you be revolted to hold me after he left his smell in my hair and I told no soul--

not even you, would you be holding me through it-- holding the oldest, star-lit part of myself that shines galactic-bright like the north on a cold winter night, would you hold all the pieces of me, the 

reeking purple pieces I have forgotten
my God-childness, not in a field kneeling beside a stained glass window—not holy, not light-loved,

would you hold me

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