you’re not a shovel, and i’m not your dirt

by suicidallyanonymous

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.

2 Comments to “you’re not a shovel, and i’m not your dirt”

  1. Dark . . . Dark . . . Dark . . .

  2. This is an amazing piece, brutal though it hits.

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