1d Joel M Frye
If only I could
cleanse you of your sadness,
clear it like the dirt
from a grave diggers fingernails
after a day spent singing
to the bones laid still.

Steal from you this sorrow,
rob it like the gold coins
rattling in the old chests;
spill it in the streets
and watch poor men rejoice.

I could be the thief of untold
heartache, and the water
needed to wash it clean.

I could be the bones that sing
back from the dirt unsettled,
the light shining from the cleansed
side of the gold buried deep
inside the heart of your earth.
The road where you want
to follow me is not the
road I'm traveling.
"...though I may lose a friend,
in the end, you will know..."
i didn't wail like a child. i nodded; i agreed,
ego bruises blackened by my own additional blows.
i know now that 'sorrys' are your self-absolution.
we know now that mature means merely compliant.
i am nowhere near a martyr, i am a casualty of myself,

feeling nothing unless it's punched me in the gut.

this bitter aftertaste of a heart
-- a horror story dichotomy of empowered and fragile --
wanting to bathe in glitter 'til it seeps from my veins
or feeling like a lighter burn with no band-aid in sight,
if only because i begged for new wounds.
she'd the option to skin you alive
- hack the flesh off with the band-aid -
but she dared to do it softly
in this deliberate slaughter of dignity.
she wrapped her arms around you
and then prised your persona away.
still, she slips into language you taught her
and perceives it as her own.
in part, you're a souvenir:
the crisp packets on her bedroom floor.
the toiletries on her bathroom shelf.
the scent on her pillow.
the look in her eyes.
the rest of you is tucked away -
your laughter lies with her high school photos
and the clothes in her closet aged with moth-eaten decay.
you'd take less offence if she'd buried you under the floorboards.
now read it back. who hurt who? am i her or is she you?
i am the compost laid below your buds
and narcissus' wobbling reflection.
i project what you want to see:
(spoiler: it isn't me.)
let's split the blame
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