I beg to be seen with eyes washed in waters I've met god in. I am a return to carnal. I cling to the tales of angels and demons, saints and devils, man and me. I beg to be collected in soft hands skilled and worn, woven through arts and crafts and the yellowing pages of books and scripture. I beg to be more than lonely and looking for mirrors. I beg to be devoured by sharp teeth and wet lips, skin and bone, flesh and blood, soaked through satin and silk and made whole by being made less.
I beg to be brought unto glory as I have for you. A divine glory, a wretched sight, a healing hand for mortal wounds. A return to the deific with gold encrusted fists and knees bruised in repentance, a honeyed ache made sweet by nature and time spent on my bedroom floor.
There are monuments designed to house, to beg for the miracles - the miracles, sky threatening and sea splitting, the miracles, fires raging and earth breaking - the miracles of warm rooms on rainy days, baked bread on hungry nights, sunshine on fertile earth. Monuments designed with marble and gold, stone angels and stained altars, sculptures of beauty in rooms carved for song; with space to kneel and none to be risen.
I beg to differ with the gravity set on monuments. I beg to be heard louder in pink blankets in lonely beds. I beg to be loved louder in pink blankets in lonely beds. I beg to be forgiven louder in pink blankets in lonely beds. And without eyes to see me, without hands to touch me, without ears to hear me, without hungry, cold mouths to denounce me; how am I not god in pink blankets and a lonely bed?
I beg to be served.
I beg for the fruit of comprehension, I beg for fullness; I am served - by jaded hearts and shaking hands, but I am served, I am served empty plates of worship and dusty chalices of sacrifice by jaded hearts and shaking hands.
It is not until the next crowned heavy head falls in my lap. It is until the devout soaks through cloth, the folie to strike deux, until the tears stain more than flesh; it is when you become. It is when you see with eyes wide shut that you are transformed. A whisper to coax you through chrysalis, but no hand in the patterned forces that emerge.
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