, , ,

It takes a certain kind of past
a certain kind of encounters
with storms
to look up at the sky and see
that the clouds are lined
with hand-me-down prayers
waiting to come true
for the other guy.
To feel respect for the faithful,
embattled but unyielding.

You are, in part,
what life has handed to you.
The rest is a matter of creativity,
a portrait in blood tones
and gold dust.

You are a unique kind of madness.
It takes a certain kind
of purposeful mess
to handpick from past regrets
for ones that are worth keeping,
tattooed on your back with dates
of the days you dodged the bullets.
They’d say that’s unhealthy
but you are not here
to tick boxes on a checklist
but to live, if sometimes
at the mercy of your
own inner darkness.

It takes a certain set
of harbored guilts,
of conquered addictions and
brazen brushes with the forbidden,
a specific race of slain dragons
to rise all proud and full-hearted
in your dignified skewedness,
fire and rain
and mastered poisons
and confessions
doused in sweet, flammable
honesty flowing rampant
between your bronze skin and
the mother-of-pearl of your soul.

To be in a constant state
of intoxication from the beating
of your own heart.
To know how to transcribe silence
into verses that pacify the flesh.

It’ll be your own voice and testimony
to look at the truth and see
days of spring come too soon
and moments of bliss
as justified acts of rebellion,
a seizing and
the deepest of deep breathing
and a bequest of the past
that is all yours
and fought with her life
so you can be happy.

“BW” by photographer Alexander Mihailov


You might also like: