I.
You sharpened silence
into a question,
asked me to name
every shadow I touched.
So I did –
until my hands were clean
and yours were not.
II.
I learned the ritual:
no nameless voices,
no faceless company,
no doors left half-closed.
Strange –
how quickly a mirror
forgets its own reflection.
III.
You held the blade
by the edge
and called it trust.
I held it by the handle
and called it love.
We both bled
when it changed hands.
IV.
Now there is someone
on the other side of the silence,
a name I was never given,
a laugh I was never meant to hear.
And somehow
I am the secret
for wanting to know.
V.
Perhaps that is what love becomes
when sharpened enough –
not a weapon,
but an agreement
to cut each other
with the same blade
and call the wounds
equal.
-
Author:
The Skeptic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 5th, 2026 08:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Wow! a relationship defined in wounds delivered differently. Nicely written and with the view that no relationship goes without pain. I too believe this that there is a duality in all things and where there is love there is also hate and where there is joy there is pain. Well done
Thank you, my friend. Your comments are always most welcome. I'm glad you like it 🙂
You are most welcome
Powerful piece, delusions. The double standard at the heart of this is brutal enough on its own, but carrying it through the image of a shared blade gives the whole poem an even darker edge. Excellent write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you, my friend. I really appreciate your comment 🙂
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