What happens to the parts of me that you don’t want?
Where do they go when you turn them away?
Back to the dark, deep moat of shame from whence they came
where they hold themselves captive with well-worn chains
of their own familiar unacceptability.
What happens to the parts of me that can’t be held
when they cry?
On whose breast can they rest
when the prophetic star
in the sky
when there’s no messiahs to be found,
and if there were, the world wouldn’t want them anyway,
inclined as they are to the frightening face
What happens to the parts of me you cannot bear
to see and soon I cannot bear
Where can they go in wee hours of night
where aloneness shows herself as goddess
to the solitary travellers of
Exiles in our stifled cries
undignified and heinous
who will kiss their innocence hello?
And where can they go