I Don't Want to Be a Stoic

I will no longer muzzle my passion.

I want to pour from the sky in thunderous and drumming praise of your name.
I want to rush through the world as floods of tears,
carving my name in hills and valleys and hearts.
I want to be overwhelmed and gasping,
to lose all sense in ecstatic frenzy,
as we dance and wail and keen and fuck around bonfires.
I want to tell stories that spook and provoke and enchant,
as we huddle under blankets and stars.
A pebble smoothed by years of wanting,
I want to land in your palm
so you can gently curl your fingers around me.
I want you to place me in your pocket next to your keys,
so I can rub up against the precious things you do not want to lose.
I want to feel your heat in places I haven’t yet been burned,
to wake up next to you and wipe the corners of your mouth with my wet thumb.
I want you to write ‘love’ across my quivering back with your index finger,
as you blow warm air and kisses and hope onto my flaw-full surface.
I want to hug so tightly that the eyeballs of my loved ones bulge with sensuous delight.
I want to burn with aliveness, with desire.
I want to feel scorched with passion, with longing.
I want to move with such arabesque finesse
that people point at me and marvel,
Look at that beautiful bird!
I want you to hear my song dancing through all the trees,
Listen, he sings for me!
I want you to see me and see the point.
I want you to know that you are loved.
You are loved.
You are loved,
with every ounce of my delicate, enflamed and indefatigable being.
I offer myself as evidence, as gospel, as theophany:
You are loved.

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This poem emerged after reading

Jasmin Moussaoui

‘s Note. It made me think of all the passion I’ve muzzled over the course of my life. The reasons for that are legion, and I am very grateful for this provocation because healing, for me, is also an unleashing.