The bloodletting is
Your dangerous wish. He
Likes to turn on his side.
Likes to make you wish
He would yell. If only
To be mistaken for violent compassion.
Your hands have coated themselves
In tremors. A reaching
For some sort of salience. They
Want to be worthy of their love's
Worth.
They feel too easily cast away.
You hate yourself
Because you know you would
Trade the silence for a tirade
Of door handles to your cheekbones,
Of matches to your palm;
Memories that your departure
Was feared.
You have met these women. Held
Them. Men. You would have freed them
If they would have allowed it.
And you hate yourself.
You wonder if there is worth
In this.
A glassful of broken beauty:
Unspeakable in its deaths.
And just once...you carefully
Place a hammer
Not wishing,
But at peace, comfort
With the recovery months of hug
And coddle.
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