Difficult

This is my half-healed heart, treat with caution
it is scarred with marks of your fingernails
a few torn hairs, grabbed from my head
it is bruised from slaps and raps and pinches
and it loves you still.
It loves you very much, for it can.

It loves you from pity.
Storm and rage if you will – and you will,
but I have learned to fly without perching.
Sometimes I wonder, what is the use, of resistance?
Whom does it change? Me, weary? You, older?
Worst, it feels like betrayal.
But I must, lest I be lost.

I used to think I could heal
like rain at summer’s end.
Oh, the optimism of the ignorant.
Separate rooms are best, where our claws can’t cut.
Now I know better, now I am many-times bitten.
Look back in anger, and fear.
Is my happiness happiness, or is it heightened relief?

We are knives in a box, stabbers and the stabbed
rolling on and on in a haze of pain and habit;
pity and terror
for and of the other.
I can’t live like this, but how else?
Paradise Lost, and never regained,
This is my song of love and hate.

                                                                                29th April, 2012

A/N: I decided to publish this poem after all, after much anxiety. Also since I was on a posting binge, and this feels cathartic. Not a love poem, btw.

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