She Wrote Another Poem
She wrote another poem this morning. He still lies hurtfully in her head, The residue of rage hasn’t gone away, In fact, it has coagulated. Twice shy to bring him up to her friends Again, they’ve been rundown like roadkill By her pitiful reprovals. But what can she do? Her heart burned black by betrayal, She wills for her blood to run icy - For news of his death to not leave a dent. But she knows, she knows for a fact Her heart’s smarting: Leaking the bloody red of roses. The wound edged with fear and doubt: Is she immune to goodness? Is she primed to go without? What will it take to fall again, To feel safe again, To believe that hurt doesn’t lie at the end?