My body will not go
where my heart is not welcome,
my heart will not travel
where there is no room for my soul.
I am knocking
in the hope that you are there
to open up.
For too long I travelled with scissors,
folding and cutting our white page
to create a family of dolls
with hands all touching,
using a little chant
as I snipped:
I love you even though…
I love you if…
I love you in the hope…
I love you despite…
The chant has worn thin
and the little cuts
will leave me with just confetti
if I can’t turn away from
these scissors on the ground.
The hand that knocks
is made of flesh
and tentative,
willing
and somewhat scared
to caress your naked face.