It takes wine bottles to string the truth out of me, and if truthfulness holds any substance now is just as good a time as any to say I miss who I could have been, and dream of everything I have given up. What you will not find on the shelves of bookstore poetry is the confession that nothing is as my heart imagined and nothing is as satisfying as what my heart once longed for. Hawaii is just as beautiful a prison as any. My hip bones focus on the weight of another and beg for a surrender that only comes being in submission.
I confess usually only to things I conjure up and rarely have experiences of my own. I bend and bow and break to just about any strength greater than my own and thank goodness I am humble enough to admit my weakness.