Midnight Serenade

She was a novel.

A well-written tragedy.

She had been used.

Her pages had begun to curl at the edges,

But what remained was still captivating –

Even after all these years.

I was in love with the sound of her voice.

There was a rumbling in its depth

That carried all of her afflictions,

And I was swept up in the echo –

Hoping to drown in the wave.

It was through loving her

That I first learned to love myself.

Heart to soul.

Finger to cheek.

Lip to neck.

Tongue to clavicle.

Layer by layer she unwrapped my insecurities

And found me lying bare-chested

In the moonlight.

It wasn’t until after she left

My secrets strewn across the bed

That I realized

I’d have to tuck them all neatly in again.

I tried to analyze my parents. 

Story by story I would break down

their decisions and reactions and

I would try to compare them to my own

Hoping to find clarity in my mistakes.

But I am not my father’s quick-step

Nor my mother’s bleeding heart.

I am flesh and bone.

Foul mouth and crude humor.

I am a lady.

I am also a tramp. 

I am the definition of a fixer upper.

And I wear it proudly.

Because sometimes when the moonlight

floods in through the windows

I hear her deep whisper,

“It’s ok to feel broken.
It’s alright to survive.”