Survivalist Feminine Wiles

The churches you visit

in Maslow's kingdom

bring you unto the world of

shiny objects spun from feminine wiles.

You shut your eyes

to what had to be

hacked, soldered, blew and polished

just to deliver them to your door.

And your endless cascades

of love songs can only

become a dedication to

only the parts of you

that you can find in them.

But you admit that is only half of your story

And as you crooned about the love

that only our forefathers could devise

from a lifetime of pain that only we should

ever come to know.

Were you listening when I told you

to imagine them in my form

when you found out I was your bonded soulmate

in the path to finding a forever kind of love?

She, holding the hourglass, high above your head

was me, when I was just 16 years old

the center of the Salem Witch Trials

as to what "purity" really means.

She, a woman, a California surfer, who couldn't face a life

where a man overshadowed

the kind of liberation

that weighs her down to drown in the waters.

She, a fatherless daughter, just looking for a fresh start

with a real man, instead of a filler substitute kind of love

that only she was taught to give.

She, battling a war, of what it truly means to be stable, when losing her life rips

her at the seams in ways of no self-help can dare to understand.

She doesn't look for fixing.

She only wants to be around someone who gives a damn.

She, the spiritual guru, who will try to patch your battle scars

through a self prophesized trail of failed loves,

when she has not yet figured out

how to heal her own except the world of

Harry Potter's escapist imagination, wonder and wizadry

even at the cost of facing her own reality of poverty.

These women reside in me and I in them.

That when you choose to love and fail all of them,

You choose to love and fail all of me.

But I'm still around.

I'm still bonded to you.

by the kind of courage that only the blood

running through my veins can fill up.

And I'm prepared to bleed, if that's what it takes to feed

your unfulfilled soul.

One day at a time.

But please don't ask me to.