Bending Bone

Who would have lied first?
Would you have put me
out of my misery or
would I have given
you yours?
Playwrights
my rights
as a person of
your interest
but they never
granted me an
aside.
Your tone was always
for your own ears
and never for mine
but this I knew
with that first
night.
Why did
I give to
you
the fragile little pieces
that were too small
for your hands,
hands of mending
of bending bone
and catching blood
but whose grasp
was too tight
and tite enough
for my jaded
nerves.

Your imprints
lay around my shoulders
where we ripped
ourselves apart,
a part of this tale
was bound to stick to my
shoe.
And I know
at the end
of us
and you
you didn’t show me favour,
a favour indeed
but for whom?
Your ghost still lingers
around my world
and when I think
you’re safe
and well,
well you climb
back in.
For another go
if only to
go again the next
minute. Laugh
at my face as I realize
it was you
just fucking with me.
If you couldn’t fuck
me in the living day
you are sure to
use
the cover of a starry
curtain
to draw in my way
when I try to chase
you down
to talk.
To give you the truth
and receive nothing
back from
back then
it’s impossible now.
As far as
You or I are concerned
You don’t exist
anymore
and I never really did
In the first place.
Of our place.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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