confessions of a sinner

I touch my ink, the myriad connotations, the strength it instills. Your recognition strikes like a blow. It’s a silly thing I brought to you, vapid compared to your art, yet you set your fire to it. Out of the blue like eyes wide you jarred my heart and I recall…

I was married then, a week before sixteen years, ten or so weeks into my affair. I did things I never thought I’d act upon but did and they all began with death and promises fierce that I never should have made, began with my turning around in need and finding no one, only the ache of a long held loneliness.

I make no excuses and carry the weight always, but recognize the complexity of a soul breaking, a heart, the core of a being breaking after usury and all entailed to get it done. Sorrowfully I judge myself harsh yet he judges me not at all and understands. He knew the wrong being done and took no pains to recompense. He knew. He knew all along.

I touch my ink, the secrets that it holds, recall the one that made me and it was neither man nor action. It was that girl I drug kicking and screaming through the years that I held prone and forced to find herself.

And now? I seek balance within the bounds I set and the freedom I pursue. And when I wonder on desire, yes needs fill me but I own it. And though it is my lover’s lips from last week’s parting that first comes to mind, he is one in a short line to be graced with my body and my heart as is

No more ever have I been able to give, for no more beautiful have I been than now, no more whole having filled my heart with me, alone but not lonely.