My love
hurts.
Its pain
written by fingers
quilled to sharp points,
recklessly dipped,
into the soft spaces
of a wounded heart.
Pressed mercilessly,
memories traced in vain.
Splattered heedlessly,
with no regard to shame.
Blank paper
wraps itself around four chambered walls
permanently stained is delivered.
To be forgotten.
And yet these fingers continue to stab.
Until the inkwell dries,
shrivels and dies.
My hands evidence,
of my heart's own massacre,
covered in blood.
Reply With Quote
