My insecurities will not be a platform for your securities. It will not be a temple to mount your faith on; a bed of a thousand roses for you to lay on, come sun on a rainy day. your last leg to win the race; your strength to build on; a blanket to warm the venomous spit in you; a whiff of strength to fill you to live another day.
My insecurities will not be a platform, for you to use to rise to the occasion. A cloth to wrap away your uncertainties, to be hauled through Jerusalem. A target among millions; aim for my heart and call it bullseye. Clothe to comfort your misery. A voice to sing your lows. Keys to bolt away your unsustainable moments.
My insecurities is never a stage, for you to mark as your territory. To use to find your dusty feet. My body to feast your words into; sticks and stones may break my bones but never my spirit.
Your words feeds my body like an easy fleece blanket misunderstood for security, comfort lacks change; maybe just maybe that’s why I allowed your words to keep boosting my falling into the known. It feels like I have been falling for so long I have forgotten what the soils beneath my shattered bones feel like.
But hear me say this.
My insecurities is neither a platform nor a stage, one open for a consultation, my form is no consolation, to make a start in gaging the cause of your agitation