Venus

I told her
“You’re a constellation,
and you just need to wait
for the right person
to connect your dots.”

She said,
“Fuck my dots.”

I’m calling my own bluff.

You were correct.
You’re not a constellation.

You’re an erected galaxy on earth.

You are supernova.

You are 60th moon.

You wear Saturn’s rings.

You ride Sadie’s Comet.

You are May 24th planned meteor shower.

You are May 23rd,
a day too early,
a marvel too great.

I watch you fall from the sky
with burning wings.

Angel,
I’m sorry they only wanted to
bed you just to feel
the down-feathers of your wings.

Darling,
I’m sorry you would take “beautiful”
from the lips of vagrants,
because you’ll hold fast to any
compliment you can get.

Pray to God, baby.
The words of these men are not confessional
or unheard prayer.
They are not praise
to your glorious shrine,
enchanting temple.

Sweetheart,
you confuse
your lover’s heart
for that of a failure.
You don’t listen to the beat
of it’s drum as it prepares for battle.

You are fighter;
You are Mars,
god of war.

You are lover,
You are Venus,
goddess of love.

To love
is not to fail,
love.

To love
is to fight,
love.

You are so
very
loved,
love.

This is the Battle Hymn of your New Republic;
the saints have gone marching in,
and you are their greatest weapon. 

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