My poetry does not shake the floorboards
But it does keep score
Of broken mirrors and slamming doors
Tally marks in finger shaped bruises on forearms
One, two, three, four
Bruises,
You can't see anymore.
The hands that cupped my face,
Kisses meant for my lips,
Given to closed fists,
And found on my cheekbones.
Dead words resurrected with names like Jack and Jim,
Putting me in their place
Six feet underneath his bed, under him.
Till roses grow from between my ribs while wicked thorn bushes pulsate in my veins,
Sugary words reminiscent of candy canes,
Verbally definitive, physically diminutive,
Because sometimes sweet talking gets you a deal.
But **** talking, I’ve decided to heal.
The person I was all those years before,
I don’t care,
I don’t know her anymore.