Sometimes we have to dig to get to our meat, our bloody unseen selves. Sometimes, we have to do more than just lay a hand on our steady beat, sometimes,
we have to rend flesh and fortune and fate to believe the liquid hope all over our fingers.
Every so often, we’ll find ourselves wrist deep in our bloody shrieking mess, and the blood across our chests won’t make us dirty.
We’ll stand, wade, knees buried in our grief, steps still, moments lost,
and our harsh cry and bared teeth won’t make us broken.
We’ll crouch, huddle, head bowed, salt and sorrow across our backs,
but our whimper and weakness won’t make us less.
Every so often
we’ll have people that stay
not because of history,
or the obligation inherent in our needs and wants,
asked or unasked,
but because they see us
and staying is just what happens when you are lucky enough
to see an entire person with every glance
catch their whys and hows with every breath
know their unseen facets like sun, a certainty, that’s left for just a bit
every so often
We’ll have people who see all of us
and even if we don’t need it or want it
and we have it
so our messes can splatter and sneer and foul
and we will still be
For Tre, and our people, who see us and stay.