Oh, how well you know
how to damage me.
How to take me for granted
again
and how to frame it
blame it
all on me.
Oh, how little you try
and, oh, how well it works.
Oh, how easy it is
for you to snap your fingers
and vanish
but still linger
in the corner of my eye.
Oh, how I miss you
but don’t even cross your mind.
Oh, how good you are
at breaking everything you touch.
A single touch
is more than enough
to shatter me,
scatter my pieces all around
like debris in a funnel cloud.
Oh, how you love leaving
bruises like fingerprints
all over my body,
and, oh, how good I am
at connecting the dots
and covering them up
with makeup.
Oh, how well you manage
to cause all this damage
and get away
without a scratch.
I envy that;
how well you move on
after leaving me in the wreckage.
They say practice makes perfect,
and, oh, how perfect you are.
So perfect, I can’t see
your name scarred
on my porcelain arms.
“They’re birthmarks,” I claim.
“Birthmarks.”
Oh, how blind I am
to believe that.
So mystified by
the sparkle in your eye
I don’t notice that it comes
from the light
reflecting off the knife
you plunge in my chest.
You steal my heart
and leave the rest.
Oh, how good I am at bleeding.
At losing my breath
at missing a step
and falling flat on my face.
Oh, how good I am
at picking myself up
and falling for it
all over again.
Practice makes perfect.
You'll find "Damage" on page 28 of my book, "Flames Speak", out now. Buy here.
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