A Day Late

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To you

I write these words

They stem from my fingers

Fed by the heart

Borne of my battered and scarred mind

To say:

You are who you are

The one and only,

And I think you’re lying

When you said you change

Constantly

For every man.

Maybe on the surface,

But underneath

You’re still the same

Friend that I’ve known,

Otherwise these words wouldn’t come.

And you say you don’t know

Who you are

Anymore.

I know the feeling.

It’s like a war in your head

It’s like your mind is ripping apart at the seams

An identity crisis

Who am I?

What is my purpose?

What drives me anymore?

It’s not all about sexuality.

Really.

It comes in a whole assortment of headaches.

And it’s to you

I write these words

A day later than I wish I’d said them.

Inked with tears.

God, why can’t a master come when it’s called?

If I am to be a slave to the word

It could at least

Help when truly needed.

I can’t make you see reason

But let me just say now

You are who you are

Otherwise I

Would not have wanted to take you

In my arms

Hold you

‘Til your fears had quelled

Kiss your forehead

And say it’d be alright.

I love you

The only way two friends

Can love one another.

No less.

So it’s to you

I write these words

Borne of a bleeding heart

And a chained soul