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Poem

Striking twofold, lightning bolts 
from the blue chasm of adversity; 
when in dead aftermath 
ghostly buzzing in her ears, 
echoed screams without end into her head, 
sparked the bitterest deluge of tears.

Weeping, head in hands, heart 
scarring and skipping in seizures of pain; 
playing Exit and telling herself 
over and over it isn't my fault, 
then questioning why the corpse of love 
was kicked to death again. 

Ages, dreaming she was mad, 
the frail belief it was all fantasy, all in her head, 
became the straw, the rationale to cling to; 
breathe, keep breathing, 
I can't do this alone; the knife driven 
and stabbed the fantasy dead. 

The first cut may be the deepest, 
but the last hones a sharper dawn, 
and the world seems a colder place; 
trust, a mug of hemlock; 
talons of sadness rip up her flesh, 
claws of betrayal cruelly drawn. 

No dignity now in silence, 
no purchase in anguished screams, 
only deadlocked continual scraping and scratching 
at love and faith and dreams; 
all that remains is to sift through the mess 
and be the girl in the barbed wire dress.

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