Lucinda L. Flanary, 10/12

Unglued

 

 

In an act of better-late-than-never
You come to me
With a bottle of glue
I suppose it is easier
To not simply step over
My broken pieces
When you know that
It was not you that broke them
This time
You look at the shrapnel
Both objectively and subjectively
You carefully examine
What once, you had just left behind
You tell me not to believe
That all men are evil
As you hide the horns
That I have loved for so long
You reach across the table
In your chivalrous way
And finally
After seventeen years
You cut yourself

Promote. Poetry.
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