Linda M. Crate
you asked me to write you a
love song, but scoffed when
I reached for the pen, you
cut me with words jagged as
rocks so I could paint it in
blood, but I’ve always been
a substandard painter which
is embarrassing given my
uncle’s talent; the one I told
you about that passed away,
but you insist upon me doing
this, demand it, as if all your
joy depends on this appendage
of words that remains in the
valley of things not constructed —
I decided it was time to cut you
loose; I will not sacrifice every
thing I have for someone that
never cared about me to begin
with, choke on your arsenic lilts;
you won’t wilt my lilies anymore —
you have no power over me now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment