“There are no swords with single edges,” I observe
As I lick wounds which I've inflicted on myself.
This latest blade was such a beauty. How could
I not rush to her? And, in her own way, bleak
And whiny, she was bound to turn to me,
And, for a fortnight, barely longer, how she
Shined when in my hands! In bed, on floors,
On kitchen counters, we laid waste to looming
Demons. Then, it seems, I swung her wrong,
And I was being lacerated by her pouting
And complaints. I told myself that I'd let go.
I tried, but, with blood on my hands, she stuck.
I couldn't set her free. Now, while the sword's
Edge that I cherished isn't sharp enough to wield,
The other's killing me.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2019-01-14 at 18:21

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