I guess I’m sick of being told, by everyone who loved me, all of the good reasons why I don’t deserve it
Fuck that. I was born deserving. We all were. One way or another. I don’t, I won’t buy that no one could ever afford me. Would keep me. Could ever. I don’t.
I am my own. I am also someone’s. Maybe not son, brother, husband, lover, not yet. No. Dead can rise. Seas can part. Maybe pigs can fly. Maybe they’ll have to. Maybe I’ll have to make them, but I would rather that be the case than to agree that I, me, I am not worthy.
It’s been too much, the fighting, to just hold me in my own hands. Too much to say that there is no more. Myself and I battle eachother to weary truces. But we fight for them. How, then, can I be all that can hold me? So small…
As it ever has been, I say that they are wrong. That they couldn’t, all couldn’t, hold on thus far is not a rule. It’s an exception. They all get to be loved, and so do I. Help me, even dyeing alone I would say that. ‘Fine then. God can try now.’
Call your own Mother a liar if you have to. I do. I will have to, it seems, some more. You can be loved. Say it again. ‘I will be loved.’ Say it.
Say it weeping. Say it screaming. Say it alone. Say it at your trial and sentencing to the contrary. Say it from the cold womb that shat you out. Say it to the cold and uncaring expanse raging away from you. Say it after every goodbye that was said and never said and comes for tomorrow to say and not say that you are wrong. Say it. Huddled alone on a bed that would be your last, but won’t be. Say it. In the arms you pray will never let go. Say it shivering as they shove you to the rain. Say it. Prophetic as the End Times. Pathetic as a beggar at wet bread. Say it. To yourself, ‘I will be loved.’
Say it to your last breath, and I will join you in the gasp. Say it.
‘I will be loved.’
Till death do us part, and forever beyond that mystery.
I can be. I deserve to be. I am worthy. I believe it is there for me. I can’t help but be.
I will be loved.