The curve of your arm
as it rests atop the black sheets
makes me feel small,
forces a moment of clarity
in its simple beauty.
You have been beaten and bruised
on the inside and out,
and your arm is resting there
as if it might never move again
for all the hurt its had –
exhausted from reaching,
in search, in escape, in shame.
You once told me
that if you have no pants to wear in life
you will never be happy
unless you learn to walk proud
down the streets with your ass out.
Someone will see the sunshine there,
even if you can never find
that radiance in your own reflection.
We are all fragile
no matter how we hold ourselves,
we can all break, sometimes shatter,
and no matter how much we may fight,
we all need to be held.
We are only ourselves.
All we can do
is sleep when exhaustion overwhelms
and reach once we are rested,
give ourselves to the arms of another
when we know the necessity of collapse,
walk proud with our asses out
because there’s radiance in boldness,
and simply try our very best
to be sincerely shameless.

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