Yours
I understand
the need for redemption
when all they do is ask about me
and the phone company has never
even heard your voice.
The scar on your leg
hasn't yet faded from our accident
four years ago (you study those
scars every day, as if searching
for blame)
and you find it
buried beneath cobwebs of
false hope and deflected
stories of the life you had
and the life you have…
I can do no right
here, within the
wish-I-was.
If I were stronger maybe
or you less so,
I’d bandage your wounds
and rock you to sleep
but you are motion-sick
and healing just fine
without me.
How long before the
questions subside?
Will you answer in the
voice of pride, or reason?
Six years’ fallacy, or
merely unfortunate?
My legs are torn too,
but I don't wear shorts in the summertime
(I never tan anyway)
and I never said I was beautiful.
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