I will cut you out of the picture of my life.
I will take a scissors, to these complex memories and
hack your influence out.
It took me months to buy the scissors,
years to get to the shop
but I got here, I have them.
I will hear sharp snips as I cut across
the images that are burned in my mind.
No longer will my thoughts wander towards you.
No more, will I allow my feelings to be  
clouded by a person who dug their words  
into my lungs and shattered
my ribs, with boots made of malicious intent,
of careless incompetence, of clueless mockery.
I will use the scissors to cut your burning strings,
wrapped around these cheap candles.
A chord cutting spell. Dust beneath my heel.
The memories I cannot cut I will burn.
I'll light a match on the bridge you
ignited.
You always said people never change, so killing current you’s influence
In revenge for past you’s violence is righteous, it is fair.
I'll sharpen their blade on the soul you hardened.
I'll rip up the pictures if I have to, claw you out.
I'd sacrifice that part of my memories,
I'd happily **** the old me entirely to take you too,
To cut you out of the picture of my life.

There are tears.
There is always tears.
a fight,
an expertly written poem
a short story.
All cause my emotions to cascade
and seek to overrule.

But for only a moment
is that allowed.
The river is stopped.
a tear or two displaying the
appropriate level of sadness.
Then I must stop.
I mustn't show you more tears than that.

The concern's differ
The questions heave the painful truth
on to the tip of my tongue.
But I swallow them. I will always lie.
It's better this way.
I'm just tired, I've a slight headache.
I am only a bit upset.

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

The emperor’s dinner was served.
Finally cooked fresh fish tonight.
And when the emperor had finished,
He felt perfectly alright.

Later the emperor felt queasy.
The pain in his chest was dull.
As he fell in a faint,
His stomach was unbearably full.

The emperor lay on the ground.
Trying to breathe with all his might.
In the end all he could do
Was accept he could see the light.

As the emperor lay dying
And contemplating his fate.
Servants raced to find the poisoned food.
But alas, they wouldn’t. It was the plate.

You
With your words
The Knife.
You.

Me
Knowing and not knowing,
Afraid and clueless.
Me.

Us
A thing that used to be,
The dust on the mantle.
Us.

We
Will never be the same
The blood that was spilled across the floor.
We.

This crime scene filled with pain and sorrow and regret.  The murderer and the victim one in the same—but also separate.  Two hearts that both dance to the same miserable song.

561

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes—
I wonder if It weighs like Mine—
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long—
Or did it just begin—
I could not tell the Date of Mine—
It feels so old a pain—

I wonder if it hurts to live—
And if They have to try—
And whether—could They choose between—
It would not be—to die—

I note that Some—gone patient long—
At length, renew their smile—
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil—

I wonder if when Years have piled—
Some Thousands—on the Harm—
That hurt them early—such a lapse
Could give them any Balm—

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve—
Enlightened to a larger Pain—
In Contrast with the Love—

The Grieved—are many—I am told—
There is the various Cause—
Death—is but one—and comes but once—
And only nails the eyes—

There’s Grief of Want—and Grief of Cold—
A sort they call “Despair”—
There’s Banishment from native Eyes—
In sight of Native Air—

And though I may not guess the kind—
Correctly—yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary—

To note the fashions—of the Cross—
And how they’re mostly worn—
Still fascinated to presume
That Some—are like My Own—