How do you tell your lover, the one that is
light, air, the ether of comfort around
you about that scandal riddled slanderous
world which visits you when he’s not
gazing? This human flesh has
suffered so much maligning male matters.
How can your lover, your children, loved ones
hear of the violation triggered by the things
which make this lithe form’s little beauty? That
sometimes, I hate my own stunning light, my radiant
glow, my own mystique, because all that disdains
me. Is it understandable that sometimes
that thing you elected to love, to trust
in the end cares nothing for you. It just wanted
you ruined. There is a chance that they could see
me as a shattered pot mended by precision: Japanese golden
seams—kintsugi—the cracks become a unifying aesthetic
thread making a spectacular shimmer: speaking to breakage
then repair as becoming part of the history of me
rather than something to disguise out of disgust. Is it possible
to forgive a rapist for wanting take a beautifully broken
thing? Did he just help make it a more beautiful thing?
Or is it something else entirely incomprehensible?