Pulling Up Roses

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.