Why Don’t You Love Me?

I watched the words,
drip over your swollen lips
like glass. Cutting you and
the tiny fragments glistening in the light,
as they got caught in my clothes.

You keeled over clutching
your gut, as though each sharp sentence
severed your insides on its way out,
causing internal bleeding, and although
I was the intended target –
you were dying.

You were hurting. Confused, and aching with the effort of cruelty.

You spat bloodied bitter words, wiping
your mouth and smearing crimson across your face
waiting for me to fall to my knees
in pain.

Grotesque. I thought. Such weakness in love.
The agony and resentment and shame that
peels the skin back from the faces of
those who don’t get what they want, or who they want,
even when they fall about and cry and hold thier
beating hearts in their hands for you to admire.

“Sure, I like the sight of blood.” I manage. “But yours is getting
on my clothes..”

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