Die Pretty
I saw irony undressing through my window,
taking off her clothes
and revealing desire.
And beneath my own coat
a confession spilling out,
a holy yearning with no place to go.
You do not have to interrogate anyone’s
theology of hurt very long
before desire appears,
a scoff unbuttoning into prayer.
What would it mean
to let what you wanted become true?
To open the door of longing
and see what enters?
To let it inhabit your body
without performance or apology?
The heart is not a locker room;
there are no chambers designated for pain
and others reserved for pleasure.
It arrives whole:
open or sealed,
tender or hardened.
Life’s only guarantee is death,
so die.
Everyone is beautiful and no one is fucking.
Passion will humiliate you,
but it will also set you free.
How big do you want your life to be?
God hides in the void of desire.
Embarrassment is the cost of living.
True humility is not shrinking
but opening—
becoming a conduit for the life of life
to pass through.
This is surrender.
I do not want to die pretty,
cold, and beautiful.
I want to inhabit the flame of every moment.
I want to set my life on fire.