published in WORD RIOT

MARCH

I too have been covered with thorns.   

I am called Karun, which means compassion.  I am the boy who has tried to live up to the name.
 
SO, I would heal her.  She had been raped, her grandfather had molested her from the ages of two to nine, her subway train was late.  How many sorrows.

I too have been covered with thorns. 

I would heal him too.   He had shot himself, point-blank in the face, and did not die as was his wish.  No, he survived, disfigured and gruesome. Without eyes.   But he was gorgeous to me.
Still, my beloved was leaving me for good, feeling he had no, no love to offer as he had no more smiles, or even eyes to watch me.  I had heard about suicide victims who survived, but this was something obscene.  He had shot himself in the face but lived through this.

He had lived through this, knowing that I would die for him. 

And though the other one, the girl with the brown skin, was my beloved as well, and was the spirit of love, she was leaving me too.  She had never tried to kill herself, but was now killing me.  I would miss them too much.  I would cum just thinking of how he was so deliciously hard, so thick, so long, to penetrate me and I would cum when I thought of how she was so deliciously soft, so lush, so moist, so wet, and so tight for me to penetrate her.  To love both was to run in a blizzard past the flower garden without shoes or shawl to nourish me, to protect me with heat.   I was eager for them. 

The collapse was fresh.  I wanted them to smile, to laugh, to fight the sorrow I knew would never, ever be a stranger.


You see, the problem was simple.  A Karun without complication was a Karuna without custody of himself.  A Karuna with simplicity was a Karun under the desert, with the mirage far above.  I had been cut to the quick with some kind of abandon, with a fierce whirling.  And twirling.  And I was drowning. I was told I offered nothing, I was told to move back, to retreat politely. 


It was certain that I would now watch the crippled dance.
I would now watch the crippled dance, but never feel the rhythm, and never hear the music.


Like the warmth blooming in March killing the cold of February, I would aim to have the sun french-kiss my face.  It would never work though.  For you see, like the roses themselves, I too have been covered with thorns.   But I would always lean into the shade. 


Even now, as February has left me. 


Even now, as March has arrived.