The ramblings of the loved.

I sometimes pray

That my mother and father

Stop believing in me.

I feel taken by the privilege

Of their love.

The shaky scribbles of their hands

Etched in the small of my back,

My shins healed in scabs

From fences they did everything

Everything

Each thing they could

To get me over.

Sometimes I like to pretend

That my "I Love You's"

Are received with the intensity

I feel them with.

But I know they are not

Because nobody has yet responded

With, "Ouch.

What the hell did you do that for?"

Nobody has broken into tears

And so I know

It has only ever been

A sentimental trust.

And I can accept that,

But I don't want to.

On occasion I wish

That the children of this world

Were taught

That beauty is not the thing admired

But the admiration.

That flowers and perfect bodies

Are only created out of necessity,

While the sneaky moment silent

In trusting these things

To be filled with the beauty

They demand,

This moment is where holy begins.

Once or twice I have demanded truth

But truth is like puce;

There are so few people it looks good on

So I like to take funny pictures of truth

I like to discuss it when I am drunk

And pretend I will ever believe it.