Would you be angry with a tender petal
that bruised under the pressure of your grasp?
Yet at my expression of hurt, frustration,
you turn your dagger eyes towards me,
aim your piercing words,
shattering the shelter of trust
you’ve been rebuilding
in more thoughtful hours.
Which is the truth?
What you are saying now,
or when you told me you love how I am,
that I am beautiful?
When I refuse to acquiesce,
to agree that there was no wound,
nothing,
all imagined,
you turn your back, abandon,
a hastily scrawled scrap paper apology
tossed over your shoulder as you go.
I’ll put it with the others.
I watch you leave,
wash my wounds with tears,
then sift through the debris
to see if there is anything left
to rebuild upon.
2-7-13
