Why
do I get
this feeling
that just because
you knew our love
could survive the plague,
you purposely began
an epidemic in my
heart, stabbing
me with
poison
just
to
see if
we could
survive that
too only to realize
too little too late that
once the skin was split by a
knife you wrap it up and leave
it there, not pull it out and
walk away but I can't
seem to pinpoint
the precision
of pain you
chose for
me
because
the former
and the latter
just feel the
same.

gd