Retrograde

That familiar feeling between grief and expectancy

How do I shield myself from the arrows of tragedy when I am the one holding the bow?

How do I quench self-hatred with self-devotion when pleasure is at the helm of every ship I've sank?

Maybe it isn't pleasure but the yearning for intimacy that touches vertebrae instead of fingers,

The nod of understanding from a head balancing the scales of my chaos, lips ready to untangle the twine, and wrap the gift of wisdom up in it.

Seen with more than eyes, known with more than heart, DNA made up of intermingling resonance, "Me too" "I understand" building calcium in bone,

Bonds break.

Bones break.

How do I stop this guilt from growing prickly stubble on my skin?