to walk through
this world with
my chest peeled
open like a fruit?
I want to feel all things
as electric as a nerve
sharp as orange rind
smell in the nose.
But the hurt
when it comes
is armored tank
against civilian child,
callous foot on fruit peel
squashed black beyond repair.
It is safe to say
I can be brave
but can I be sturdy
enough to take on
the stray thunderstorms
I invite to my porch?
Everybody loves
their own selves, own stories,
even if sometimes it makes
for an ugly love.
In this world
I am both alone
and not, can never be
alone if I tried.
I am meant for love.
I am made for love.
Tender like the inner
segments of an orange,
beyond thick peel,
beyond paper skin,
the little pods that nuzzle
against each other
and burst into juice
if pressed too hard.
You can press me hard.
I am ready for bursting.
I will not be numb.
My skin has regrown
over so many bruises.
I must trust, I must trust.
I will fail, I will fall. I will stand
again, as though for the first time,
as though I have always known how.