sick of you, somehow, i could never be, inherently

through the tortured gods
of which I walk
profound love pierced
by soul crippling loss

the simplest things
somehow deemed
"but not for me"
it seems..

real connections
that last,
a love that grows,
and builds,
these things just slip right through my hands

it happens all around me
someone meets someone
and it progresses to permanent

call it marriage
or union
or "sacred other"
or not

first date, first fuck,
courtship, "come of this"
boyfriend, girlfriend
partner's
can't be bought

but found
all around
I hear the stories
I watch them play out

man and woman
man and man
whatever the denomination,
it's a connect, heart and hand

it's all i've dreamed of,
simple in my complex
it's all i've prayed for
someone to see my heart
and want it, detect

that I am not the player
or user, that abounds
that my dream, very simple
I am the one, unwavering
of loyalty, devotion, known, no bounds

but,
my fate lives on
born of the magic
tied to tragic

entwined to madness,
mine, this engulfing sadness

I am never "the one",
but the "almost" reflection
strikes me stung, bludgeoned, done

i've been told
I'd be perfect if I was only a girl
by straight men, who too,
don't belong in this world

i've been told
I was beautiful, if only
I was someone else, inside
by gay men, who loved only my limbs
and holes, and ability to withstand
mind fucks and lies

i've been told
once, a fallen angel
that "donnie breaks all the girls hearts",
non-sexually, heart-touchingly
i guess, the "she", the only ones to
ever accept, more of me

than any man could
and in defense of them,
as rightly, they should

run away from me
and my drown in them need
to love and care and be present,
ripped bare

amongst the few of them found
that strike me as truly awake and aware

but no matter what all may have offered
for a moment
i continue to witness,
this inherent lonely and lost,
it's mine, "own it"

doesn't matter what i do,
regardless if the love is pure,
or reversed
a filth-i-fied screw, nothing to prove

i find it, the dream
and lose it, again
in various forms and fires
be them literal lovers or
"blush struck", drawn friends

born to dream and die alone
dichotomies surround me,
like "homeless" living inside
my own home

real love and attraction
kinetic, electric
i "overwhelm",
in my adoration and admire

and watch as they slip away
on to others whose
tread of stability must be more
hopeful and higher

"are you sick of me yet?",
he said once, striking me numb

"that's what i always say", i replied
as he stole a piece of my heart
and, in awe and empathy, i died.

moments and memories
that embody the blooming of love
"meant to be", unexpectedly

except my "meant to be",
means "touched so deep" it seems
never will it copulate to "complete"

so i walk ahead,
altered and heart saddened
again,
haunted by dreams inside,
alone, bleed their passing,
and for the hunger of a heart
impassioned, do i seep inside,
owe them.

(the only understanding of my
reason for being here)

for a love that i seemingly can never quite have
right in front of me, touchably
untouchable, skinless
forever in the search, soul salve.

and to rewire this mind
and be wrong, for last "once"
there is nothing i would be happier
to report, feel me, glad



bowen hart roselli
24 march 2020
ringwald love