Shrouds II

To my priestess of black shrouds I tell no lies
I speak not of fancy nor in fear
I act not in search of acceptance and love
for she gives both freely.

She has no inkling as to how beautiful I look
how nice I seem.
We have no pact to continue such an illusion.

I keep her from my friends and my other lovers;
I keep her safe from the taint of those who love
me for my physical beauty or my brain-wrought brilliance;
I keep her safe from my weaker self
who cares the petty pleasure of approval.

When I speak to her I speak softly
I whisper through the shrouds of such shameful sadnesses
which are the scripture of
my surface self and perceived soul.

My words to her are disorganized and rambling
in their ugliness they are pure.

In my blind and scarred priestess
I defile and I cleanse the broken parts of my spirit
that I cannot bear to love alone
(while in fear I hold all others to the light of assumed life);
together we know only darkness.

In the black silks of my lady's sight
I seek neither pleasure nor pain
I but give and give and give
of my unrelenting suffering
I fall unto my knees in the face of it
but not she
I lie naked and unfettered, exhausted and pitiable
I lie honest.
I float in the river of her love.

Her love she gives freely, compassionately
in a way I am forced to earn
a way I need desperately
a way I have never myself given.
She teaches me.

I plead with her to heal me
but she refuses.
I tremble in the might of her uncompromising warmth.
If she can love me
without all of my beauty-masked ugliness
can't I?