Where can i go

Where Do the Broken Ones Go

Hands sore, but not from labor.
Hands sore, but the scars are unseen,
felt through thick skin,
worn like a heavy rag of a winter coat,
yet felt through kind touch.
So where do the broken ones go —

Give me a soul, or a ferry to cross a river,
a kind eye to go home to.
Hands sore, my feet are tired, out of breath.
The only way out seems to be in.
As I'm filled with doubt — the only way out could be through.
So where do the broken ones go.

Beauty from within, far from the eye,
further from the touch,
like a skin, like a wall,
that covers an essence,
like an old story.
I'm tired of living —
I experienced it once, I'm tired of telling.

Like a mother with her two sons,
hiding each from the other, she cares for one.
A shield for him, and a sword in me.
One who never doubted that, for all his faults, he remains unconditionally loved.
As he drove her drunk, unconditionally loved.
He was there before you, she said — so one remains, and one left.

Who was the chosen one?
Yet I loved you the most.

Like one among many, the broken ones,
who lack all the feathers from their wings.
It was plucked out, nothing there but bare bones,
holding still.

A naked body, uncovered, I'm blessed with worshiping lips,
longing for her kiss,

who loved you the most?
Who received the least of your love?

And as I suffer from feeling, what feelings have you suffered?
Over-giving, your  love is undesired, a paralyzing force —
I usually care.
Fuck off, what have you lost?
Remind me again what is that word,
the opposite of blessing?
I really wonder.
Who broke your heart — now I really can fuck off.

My feet are tired, my hands are sore,
a rebellion against the self.
A wing lacking feathers,
broken into parts,
fragmented parts standing in a cluster, seeking close proximity to the self,
disrupted randomly as they shift and change, lacking a functional grid,
yet worth more than a centered whole of a closed fortress self,
parts that are sharp.

Sore hands from self-touch,
unable to soothe itself.
Sharp parts, equally distributed —
the distance is equal to the amount of the touch,
an action that repeats itself,
like a dream every day I must force myself to forget,
as the long night went on, it lacked a moon.
Nothing but scars over scars.

Left me exhausted like an autumn tree,
fallen leaves equal to the sight of unkind eyes.
Scars like stars — under the sun,
a sun with a burning light,
so I favor the moon,
even when the nights are long.

So where do the broken ones go.
They just leave.
I left.

Run, boy, run.