He Called me Unworthy

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He called ME unworthy? Perhaps my ears deceive,
Perhaps you misheard.
Unworthy?- when between my legs
He saw actual heaven?
When my touch brought him,
And brought him,
And brought him again
Till in hoarse voice he cried “No more!”
Even as his body begged “Go on!”?

When t’was me with whom he cried
And from whose breast he drew
Only tenderness, only love;
That special kind of nourishment
Only a grown woman can give her man?

When I saw him at his weakest
And called him strong
And by so doing spoke strength into him?

Forgive me for saying it, but I made him.
With my arms and my words
And my sweat and my tears
And my heart and my prayers –

I made him.

With my love and my wetness
And my blood and my affection
And my acceptance –

I made him.

I covered his weakness
Erased his mistakes
And together we stepped into fullness.
One and one became a greater one,
Greater even than the sum of the parts.
I drew up the game plan with which he slew the dragon –
When did I become unworthy?
When did I become a ‘thing’ he needs to get over, let go of,
Speak of no more?
When did that happen?

“When?” I asked them.”Why?”
“Stop,” they said. “You’ll never understand.”

Am I not human enough?
Woman enough?
Or is it that I am too much of both?
Why am I held to a higher standard
Than that to which he holds himself?
Blank slate he said, as if he himself – as if anybody – is untainted.
Fresh start he said, as if he can ever go back to not knowing.

I said nothing and let him go.

I watched him live a small and narrow life,
Watched as his dreams disintegrated
To be interred with the ashes
Of what we once shared,
His greatness tempered by lethargy
And a weariness that he could not shake off
No matter what pills he popped
Or what art he made.

He es still great, don’t mistake me,
For that was thrust upon him at Creation-
Just not as great as he could have been,
If he’d dared do the hard thing.

A tinge of grey colours his world,
And a miasma of secret sorrows and hidden regret
Clings to him and all he touches.
The terror of never reaching quite high enough
Or digging quite deep enough-
He dreads never quite making the mark.
He’s always searching for that nameless thing
That will satisfy his thirsty, seared soul.

He’s always seeking, never finding.
Always needing, always wanting.
Always hungering and thirsting
Yet questioning what it’s all for.
Never content, never really happy,
Yearning, always pursuing
And striving –
We would have risen to dizzy heights
If he’d heeded love’s call to enter.

Who hasn’t loved and lost?
Who?
Who doesn’t carry the scars
And the unhealed wounds of past experience,
Hasn’t been shaped and moulded by it all?
I have walked through the fire
And come out the other side rarefied.
I’ve been stretched and pulled and folded
And broken and mended
And lived to not only tell the tale
But to seek the high love and the deep love,
The kind of love from which sonnets are written
And poetry recited.

They said he was an idiot and a fool.
They said he was weak and a coward and a tool
But none of those things are true:
He straddles the line between man-child and man-whore.

The real truth? Feelings aside?
He just never knew what we could be,
Never saw the vision I did-
I cannot fault him for that.
In love and in love only
Ignorance is an acceptable defence.

-Beauty’s Daughter

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