It's a wound so old,
covered with years.
You could mow it down
if you were still around,
but there's no closure
with you in the ground.
Where were the stitches
as the blood leached out?
I had to self-infuse
and it isn't about
status quo.
It's just the drug, you know...
keeps you so numb
and somehow alive.
I despise you for your weakness
I despise you for your failure
I hate you most for the reflection
and the way I see me there.
Whatever the conflict...
your daughter carries the anvil
that drops on my neck
and sinks the progress we might have made.
You give her that power
over
me.
Your excuse is fucking ancient.
Haven't you fixed it yet?
But don't point that finger back at me.
My pain is bigger,
don't you get that?
Ha!
Can we ever be to each other
the grace that's so offered
or will we always be the devil
poking fingers into wounds proffered?
We should be the stable,
the picketed sanctuary.
But we're pulling up roses
while the weeks run unchecked
through our unease.
