Devotion (Reflection)

when contemplating the word devotion and its scalloped edges, the seaside-at-sunset- pink it often wears to provoke those who would walk alongside it, I always imagined myself in the approach, one of those starched-collar suitors armed with stiff bouquets of formal roses, knee desperate to bend, litany of my faults loaded on the tongue already, the elegant catapult of my mouth hungry to launch the volley of unworthiness, which happens to be the name of my favorite chapel in the church of language, where I try to worship frequently, though sometimes my fervor lapses into a practice based on utility, i.e. I only come around when I need something, which makes me feel guilty, sure, and therefore unworthy, so I guess it all works out, in a way, it’s restrictive but comfortable, at least and when I think of devotion I always see myself in the suit, whispering intensely into the ear of the thing that doesn’t need me I never imagine that I could be the one upon which the pink silk hangs, the one who steps gracefully through the long day receiving compliments and entreaties I can never find the edge in the air that will reveal the door into the feeling of being praiseworthy, so I keep humbling myself, though my knees are bloody, though my tongue is blunt and tired of moving through the same positions that make up the reasons why you shouldn’t love me, why my dress isn’t pink, why I’m a false idol I’m a false idol I’m testing myself I’ve broken all the mirrors in the house