If it twists, it twists.
Say so, twist
with it and near it
and follow how it turns.

If it’s straight, do
the same; slide down it
in a long shout of joy for the ride.

If it’s broken,
see it broken.  See it
in pieces or still hanging
together though shattered.
See it, say it.  Don’t move
to repair it until
you can say it is broken.

If it is whole, say that;
no flaw or fracture to mention
needs to be created.

If it’s wrong, it’s not
right.  Admit the
flaw and speak to it,
coax it out, let it be
as ugly as it is.  Some ugly
you can smooth, some
you can’t, but you won’t know
until you look closely
and describe, almost endlessly,
the hideous nature.

And if it is beautiful?
Don’t be constrained
by the overused word —
holler.

As for yourself:

admit the smooth, the torn,
the twisted, the plain,
the ugly and the lovely
are all there.  You’re
not the beast alone, not
the angel either; no devil
without a saint by his side,
no splintered bone left
unscrimshawed and made
into new beauty.  Stagger
past your failed masterpieces
into the hall where your friends
await you with food and drink,
and no false modesty.  

Admit
what’s there and real and
true.  True
is all that matters. 

If I had fur
I’d at least be soft
to the touch
even if there was still
broken glass and shrapnel
under my skin

Caressing
would be ever
an option
as it is not now
Cuddling
would be
accessible
as it is not now

But I have no fur
I’ve rolled and rolled and rolled
in so many sharps
you can’t see my skin
I am not
easily lovable 
cannot be held 

If I seek fur
now it’s only by
the only way I know
hunting
killing and skinning
bullet and knife
and blood spent
in the search for a warmer
hide

but no one loves
the hunter
who comes home soaked in blood
no matter
how soft he now appears

so why bother
live instead spined and ragged
with cuts and scars
and if no one comes to stroke me
all for the good