ACCEPTING THE HEART’S HARLOTS
I make this choice:
I luxuriate with my harem of heartaches.
Why not wrap arms around Grief?
She looks so hungry and pitiful with her empty hands,
And she never leaves me.
Why not kiss the cheek of Sorrow,
And savor the brine in her bottomless well of tears?
I admit to massaging Frustration’s shoulders.
He is beefy and buff and his muscles cry out for kneading.
I embrace the ancient frame of Rage.
Yes, I hug him as he shudders in my arms.
I let Confusion nibble my fingertips as I comb out her curls
While her brother, Doubt, leans heavily against my back.
And I snuggle with Disgust,
Though he drools and mutters when he naps.
Shame and I share a mattress under the white moon.
She’s a naughty lover who hogs the bedclothes.
I admit to exploring the furrows of my wounds,
And to caressing the thighs of Fear as they tremble like two captured fawns.
Sometimes, when I stroke the eyebrows of Regret,
She points out sunflowers along my path.
So I make this choice:
I offer a bouquet to my Catastrophe.
I honor my Decay, my Fractures, and my Pettiness.
Yes, I accept my ridiculous Fate.
I accept my Bereavement and my Terror.
I won’t shun the beast of my Despair.
I will mend its lame foreplay.
I know it is the mascot of my Dissatisfaction,
But it is also the defender of my Dreams.
I make this choice.