Sometimes the cut is too deep,
the wounds bleeding and wide open.
I’m not proud of them, never that.
Bitterness is my failure. I take it daily,
feeling its poison thread through my
veins like a drug. It is too costly to be nice;
like the taste of slow torture,
your tongue tracing the salty tracks
made by the tears that stream down my face.
Some things just betray me,
catching my heart in a vice.
The scent of freedom’s a thrill,
being caught out in your gaze;
the freshly mown grass under my feet;
those days by the river, buzzing with dragonflies,
flitting in a whirl of business and wings.
But this is how it is now,
me keeping my distance
watching from afar. What is better,
safe and comfortable or caught out on a limb?
You did your work well
giving me your pain at the start of my life.