Drop the pretences like a drum beat, pounding the the heart of the streets with your new found mouth. The real you which is not seen on television, on a dead mannequin or on a wanted flyer. Find yourself under a bushel, over the smooth skin of a rough oak after a thunderstorm and behind a locked bolted door. Prise yourself open by squeezing hard unto pliers, give your entire effort because the walnut of your heart has been fortified with time and locked in designer clothes and self-gratification, who releases the mind like a wild animal ravaging soft, cuddly toys. Their insides irreparable, as they spill over, filling up your inbox with white, fluffy stuff. Searching for repair in the wrong place. The doctor is not in the dark digital places, that possess your body like a drug and feeds you lies written over suicidal, bare bodies. The repairer is found in the broken place, in the place of heartache and wondering about how you are never quite enough for someone else. I find you when the strength has been lost to self-sacrifice, you have been in the battle long enough to be honoured as a war hero and the balm of love has been gently put over the simmering wounds. You've always known. The words have always spoken in the quiet air when you walk home in the clarity of a night sky. Go beyond belief into knowing, that when you stare into a cliff's edge, you don't fall. You jump into arms unknown. The one who has always known who you are. Since the beginning of time.
You. Are. He.
