As a child someone asked me “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I’ve been thinking….
I want to be open, like a timeless book of pulp pages, soft between her fingers, folded dog ears and memorized lines, night time by the fire side, her hands on my worn leather spine, repeating cycles, rewind, revising stories for spatial time, let me be the empty chalice for her maturing red wine.
I want to be strong, like the brick walls she pounded with bloody fists, red dust falling at her feet, electric fences overhead, the violence of the pendulum swing, as she found her way inside my ribcage, like a tender flame, I would cup my hands and swallow the wind, let me be without fear…
I want to be generous, a tree, a leaf, a seed, and mud, to build castles in the clouds with the ink from my blood, with my breathless body, silent yet free, a labour of passion wrapped carefully, in scar tissue and purple stitching, a gift that keeps on twitching, let me be the flood
That overwhelms the parts of her that have never been loved, the lighthouse that blinds her dark waters while her demons writhe like fish out of the sea, let me be, the Creator who grants them legs, the Darwin to her painbody, the Easter to Good Friday, let me the sacrament of blood
That runs through her holy veins, the spirit that moves through her temple, from the volcanic peaks of her rage, to her ocean trenches of grief, let me be her silent howls at the moon, the flowing blood of her course, let me be one with her force, like a rouge Jedi knight to her secret sith, a terrible Darth Lilith, set free, ‘cause if she asked me, I would follow her down any path, you see.
I want to be the love that never leaves, to sing painfully out of key, ballads of memories, collect seashells along her Plutonian shores, cut love coupons from my skin, for redemption, keep bitter receipts, and movie stubs, deep, hidden pockets, under our flaming wings, transcending, transmuting, expending, intruding, yeah, pushing and pulling, two of cups, overflowing, renewing, alchemical caldron now brewing
An ambrosia to remember, a goddess, I remember, set free from sleepy amber, a soul beyond gender, extreme polarities temper, and tempest, quiet down, gather ‘round, and astound the ones who see her true face.
You see, her true face is a reflection of me, a mirror to see, more clearly, a love, for love, to love her, I love me, for love, this is me, to be me is to love, is to be free.
So to the children inside me, for little ones in she, to the question “what do you want to be,” Mije, please reply,
Let me be love, let me be me.
I am already enough.
Just let me be.
Azrael Torres 