when the frail heart submits itself like a bloody flag,
throwing up its white wings of peace,
I wouldn’t wish for that kind of sadness,
but there is stoicism in rawness,
in not pretending to be brave.
There is courage in feeling shards of pain like bullets
ripping through a silken heart
as they find their meaty crevice.
Rawness is a special kind of intoxication.
Like cracking open a wounded egg to expose its hidden yolk,
wearing one’s sadness like a badge evokes
a certain type of poisoning.
Rawness calls for victory.
It hangs like a shadow sewn onto one’s clothes.
Heavy as a stone, slipping into water,
at once electrified and homely,
a familiar drowning.
I am sorry that I didn’t see your rawness
until it was too late.
For all you have suffered, I now carry a piece of it with me.
you are a part of my rawness, and so
you are a part of my victory.