Love is a sword with no pummel,
simply just a piece of steel
with room enough for two hands -- our hands.
From the first time I held yours,
on that windy day up that winding hill,
we grasped onto that pummel-less sword.
As we grew closer, so did the cold steel,
until one day we're inches deep
rupturing organs and arteries.
It's not something you see right away,
love is almost like shock --
the way it clouds judgement.
I told you to let go,
to let it fall away and to let time heal,
but your grip only tightened.
Twisting and turning that sword
until you're on scrapped knees,
hoarse voice screaming accusations.
But while you wallow in pain,
I've stitched myself up.