Raw irony laces its high-top shoes
and laughs at me with a cynical sneer.
Dark dances are in my head -
Others, so normal...all of them...not me.
Not me, never me, is not me.
Upon my back is a pack of sorrows.
Secret wishes are scars that run up and down
my arms from self-mutilation.
Taught not mercy or kindness,
yet they live within my being...sparing him.
I can no longer sing - he crushed my throat.
I hobble on a hip that will never heal.
Buddha says, “All life is suffering”.
The injuries are well-known friends
who come to visit; come to stay.
But the thoughts inside my head -
where no one can see...these worry me.
He left me nothing, not even my innocent
kindness, for I have killed him
a hundred times in my mind...will **** him
a hundred times a hundred -
and he will not be dead, but I will have
the stain on my humanity even after
I know he is well and truly dead.
I, the murderer of the heart.