Wednesday, March 23, 2011


Your words cause my sickness,
your silence; my strife.
You want me to believe
you won't stab me,
when I saw you 
pick up the knife.

I am tormented by
how little you cared
about how much you shared,
which wasn't yours to share.
I am hurt by
how easily you lie
while I vanish into thin air.

When I needed
a soft place to lay my head,
you gave me a rock
instead of a bed.

You gave me a tent
and a pinch of salt
when I needed a bandage,
and a sturdy vault.

I will pick up the pieces.
What once was, will be patches.
I will try to believe
you won't burn me,
if you don't let me hear you
light the matches.

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