High Art

I merely wish
to be understood in my sin
and desired for it;
for the women like me
to view me as high art
as we give each other the grace
we were so unjustly denied,
for us to be blessed
with each other’s bodies
and the warmth of beds
on long winter nights,
while I bleed in ink and memory
in lieu of the world I would give
and the bullet I would take;
and I refuse to believe
that this beauty
is too much to ask for.