I stanch internal hemorrhaging
by putting the inside outside;
I'm finding out
that ***
without love
is a pantomime--
an open-hand slap.
Not an assault,
but an insult.
It's too hard to
shed the skin
you left me in.
Even now, I love you
more than I care to admit
so I curl up
like burnt paper
with surrogates
and memories
to keep me warm—
but it still feels like infidelity.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
I stanch internal hemorrhaging
by putting the inside outside;
I'm finding out
that ***
without love
is a pantomime--
an open-hand slap.
Not an assault,
but an insult.
It's too hard to
shed the skin
you left me in.
Even now, I love you
more than I care to admit
so I curl up
like burnt paper
with surrogates
and memories
to keep me warm—
but it still feels like infidelity.
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