offerings

the way i carve
off my
pieces of self,
those chunks of sincerity,
if only it weren't so
connected to my
self. an invisible
string, and here i am
strung out
on this end. of
love?

well, here i am,
speaking of nonsense.

i am the offering,
and cut open, parceled,
in parts given away, taken,
or both,
and it's either
nor neither
and all of
the sides i have
developed shadows for.
where it's cold
and comfortable. some
where in between.
other temporary fevers.
some cyclical season,
as ritual. but ever, ever
but ever, as hope.
and whoever died
of despair, save
those who hope.
and whoever died
of hope, save
those who
believe in poetry.

your honor,
i cannot deny
the charges
against me. but still,
i proclaim
innocence.