vulnerable

hissing on the floor of hell,
you’ve always thought yourself a freak,
too inward to charm the ball or the Belle,
too ugly to be iconic.

too queer to at least seem well-meaning,
too puritanical and sharp
to strut like some gay butterfly
or keep in tune with love’s young larks.

o tender-hearted tormenter of self,
I’ve caught you in the prickly gorse.
o little broken boy, o elf,
I’ve shielded you within this prickled place.

we raise each other up, I tend your wounds.
the carapace of irony peels back, in parts.