Once I wondered if I show give my poems to those whom they are about

To show them the pain that leak out of my pen in between the anger and regret

I wondered if giving them my anguish cloaked in paper would free me

Would the ink from the page seep into their fingers and stain them, like they did me

And I want it; I want it like broken glass shards want to cut, to give the pain away

As if additional pain ever made a glass cup whole again, able to be filled again

But then I remembered that I was the victim not perpetrator and I never will be like them

So I will show my pain to the world not in vengeance but anonymity