The blood blister burst
when I was nine years old:
closed fist, closed heart,
dressed in a Disney dress.
I don't want pity.
I want soft eyes.
I don't want money.
I want love.
I never said it would be easy
opening that fist,
closing it around something warm,
something other than grief.
I never said it would be easy
or beautiful, because I'm neither.
I'm broke and broken.
Those are my crimes.
Leaving, with fists closed:
this is your regret for loving me.
I shoulder your blame,
blisters from the heat.
And yet the anger is always
yours.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment