All bodies of my age are made of scar
and callus and the aching bit of bone
I broke at ten; my racing mind alone
is fresh, and yearning heart – such things as are
the vestiges of youth and can't sustain
youth's energy. Some say I pay the price
of holding on to youth. My heart breaks twice.
There are no calluses within my brain.
Just all the fresh and cutting wounds of lust.
My songs are made from pain and shame; I blush
at how I can still yearn, and can still rush
into Love's net of folly, can still trust
and stumble. Tripped. And manage to forget
pain past. I see Love's face, and stil get wet.