Disheveled

So what good is all of this, anyway, if it cannot even save a life?

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

What good is comfort if it cannot save?

What good is truth if it does not heal?

What good is healing if it does not remain?

What good is anything I do if the person it spoke to is the person it could not save... or heal?

But I know that I cannot save.

And I cannot heal.

And I know the fight isn't over.

The fight is never over.

And I just know that I'm not okay with this.

I want to show up to you disheveled.

I want to throw open my mud and blood stained hands to you

as I collapse at your feet

in one utter and completely

graceless movement

shouting

"Here is all I have for you!

Do you really still want me?"

I want my tattered clothes, and matted hair

to lay all my addictions bare

To prove how, left to myself, I've completely come undone

I've lost myself inside of substances and stories, people and things

And now

Every time you try to tell me who I am

I can't remember how to hear you

I want the sweat, pouring down my face,

To prove the frustration of what I couldn't bring myself to say

That I've used and abused all that's been given to me

Then hated it for being mine

Then wanted what wasn't,

Then stole it to make it mine,

And hated it just the same

And I'm so tired of doing this every single day

But truth be told

I'm not so sure

There's any other way

I want my bruises to tell of my victories,

But my scars of my defeats

Those seemingly permanent failings

That I have changed into my name

Because those are the ones that I need so desperately redeemed

And if you are who you say you are

You said you'd clean them up for me

I want to bring to you my worst

Because I long to take you at your word

When you say the weak and wounded, poor and weary, sick and sore

Are those who are most welcome, most familiar with your door

And if that's true then I will run

With everything I have to you

It isn't much, my strength is gone, so limping will just have to do

But

First I need to know if what you're telling me is true.

Because try as I might, I just can't see

How Perfection

Could find anything that's lovely

In everything that's me

So please, I only ask one thing

And if you'll answer, then I'll know you can:

Will you just let me find my way to you

Exactly as I am?

For I want to show up to you disheveled

I want give you my defeat

So that you may even louder

Shout your victory

In me.

What fucking good is any of that, anyway, if it cannot even save a life?