Cutting Words

sad-alone-girl

Those sharp words flew
released from the bow of my mouth with such violence
that they cut my lips
a killing shot confirmed as
I registered from the look on your face
the last morsel of regard for me
settled at your feet like dust beaten from a rug
and the air in the room left with you
I wanted to weep but wouldn’t let the tears fall
forcing them back down
into the murk
better now than later
better to cut and run
I assured myself as another crack opened up like ice in a treacherous pond
in the silent space where my heart once beat
for I know
I have been well taught
that the illusions of love soon wither and my true and destined soul mate is
not a match made in heaven

*photo by 9images*

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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