thorns and other maladies

69

how do you do this to me—
shatter all my insides
like a sledgehammer to glass?
why did you worm your way in there
just to break it all apart?
or better yet
why did you piece me back together—
so delicate and careful—
just to smash it all again?
i don't how much longer i'll last
with these shards ripping me open
and tearing my flesh off my bones,
i don't know how much more
i can hold within me.
i fear what will happen
if anymore pain
drips into me—
one more drop
and it may all spill over
burst out my throat
and choke me to death,
one more drop
and my whole being may fall apart
atom by atom
skin and all,
one more drop
and my body may dissolve with me
like a flower in acid—
you once asked me
how you make me feel
my answer is this.
this horrible wretched feeling
of being torn down and rebuilt
over and over
of being put back together
but never being quite the same
of having your heart
chipped away at
and cracked down the middle.
you've left me speechless
in awe of your constant "mistakes"
astounded by how good you are
at ripping me open.
i've yet to decide
how masochistic i am
but i'm reaching my limits.
a glass can only break so many times
before the whole thing becomes dust.
a girl can only break so many times
before she becomes dust
and i am not a phoenix—
i can't rise from the ashes
ready for fresh bruises
there's no rebirth for the bones
that break in your hands—
once i am gone
there is nothing left,
except a mountain of scars
in the shape of your hands
except a hole in my chest
the shape of your heart
except the last of my blood
staining your fingertips—
once i am gone
there is nothing left
there is no girl
that you can break as you please
there is no girl
who will love you anyway
there is no girl
at all.
she will be gone.
and then what will you do—
who will hold
all your shattered remains?
who can you break
that will still love you anyway?
or better yet
how will you ever forgive
all the things you've done?
at the end of it all
when you're planting roses
at the foot of my grave
you will ask yourself the same questions
and maybe then—
when you find yourself
prostrated before me
at the alter of your failings—
you will finally have an answer.
but you will have no one to give it to.

—i am the loss of your life