Your words
are a knife that slides
through my skin
sharp enough to be smooth
but for a slight stickiness as I
am pressing too hard.

You know me well.
    (the flesh the blade has passed through looks momentarily untouched)
Too well.
    (i notice the faint groove, like the trail left on a paper by a pen with no ink)
We have used
identical metaphors.
    (the furrow is suddenly dotted with beads of scarlet)
If you know this
I have failed.
    (the trail fills with blood, a red line threatening to spill over)

Not yet.
You do not know
    everything.
You have forgotten
    that I am
a liar.

You write of victory.
    (the knife continues its journey under the guidance of my hand)
You write of battle.
     (stinging pain finally seeps into my consciousness)  
You make a chrysalis
of my coffin.
    (the line is no more as blood escapes to bathe my skin in red)
You foretell my emergence
marred by fading bruises.
    (knife forsaken, my fingers tug at the path I have carved, forcing it wider)

I was lying
    when I told you
    that at our reunion I
    would fling open the gate
    and run to you.
I will be lying
    prone when you find me
    beside the gate I made
    of my will, now corroded
    to let you in.
Too late.
I am all but dead.