Before the week has had
its fill in misery,
an emptiness
you continue to leave behind
buries itself in my spine.
Maybe that’s why
I can’t see the scars yet
[inflict me with something
you can taste,
use your fists,
not your tongue].
Your words
are razor blades,
hot steel against my skin;
you don’t want
molten brick
splattered on your face
tonight.
Hit me like a man,
because I loathe
the porcelain woman
I’m supposed to portray
[she wants to leave,
but I’ve slammed the door
on her fingers].
You aren’t sincere enough
when you hurt me.
Poet's Corner 