the blood spattered quiet
against grey concrete.

I think I should feel
I know; I should feel
but somehow
I become your hands
strong, steady, quick
as you cut me free
as you cut me
deep

I want last year back
when you tore me open
with intent to kill.

now,
you pluck at my skin
like a gardener pruning a bush
and I can do nothing but wince
while hoping for an early fall

07/24/2005

Posted on 07/25/2005
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