Torn Love
Still standing close,
each on our own side of this terrible rending,
how can we see things so differently?
This little flap of skin
you keep pulling open
wants to close.
This is how cancers start—
this worrying and worrying of an old injury.
My darling. Leave it alone
and let us heal.
This is only a biopsy
of our changed love affair.
If it is cut out of us,
it will be by your decision;
and no number of late-night arguments
will ever change that fact.
What you need to remember
the next morning,
you will remember.
If it were up to me,
we would still be friends,
but if you need an enemy
to console you in your actions,
I guess I must be that too.
I always was a figment
of your imagination.
Believe that
if it makes this easier for you.
II
Cicatrix
I know better than you
what lies buried under
my healed-over self.
The raised part of me
grown to protect the wound
creates this distance
that I once warned you of.
I need to thicken that part of me
where part of you remains,
and if for this time you gasp for air,
it is my thick skin growing over you,
like an orb spider winding you in my web
until you become
the one in me hidden so deep
that even you
believe you’ve disappeared.
Yes, another reprint of a poem from over four years ago. The prompt today was torn.
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