There are weeds on your rock
Vines reaching and groping
Across the stone of your skin
They are trying to grow
But can only look longingly towards the sun
Lapping up the raindrops
In a Secret
My Handsome and Giant Golem
Punches his hands in the dirt
And screams at every blade of grass.
He has grown weary of his weeds
Of boys who play with sticks.
He has grown weary of me.
You are hating yourself for the green
That sprouts from your body,
Reaching towards my fingertips.
So when wooden walls
Bleed holy scripture
You will stick your hands in flame
And tell me that you are
“Closing the Distance”
I wish you could see that these weeds are never meant to be burned.
They are simply the person you don’t want to see.
Dealing with one’s own sexuality.