sticks, stones, and the futility of fingers

Heather T

one catastrophic line

wound around my throat

the razor wire brambles ran

like ivy on dead porches


strangling the boards and bones

creeping shards of sundering cold

frayed every quaking nerve

from the sanctity of skin


you left me here in ribbons

left me here

and this profane bouquet

withering on the floor


all of the thorns purged

that I would rather bleed to death against

than a thousand maudlin words

perfumed with gasoline


concussed and warring I shook

for necessary surgery

the lungs locked and pushed aside

if you had reached in


with violent nails and wrenched

the ribs from beneath my breast

and lighted candles in the walls

to glance this gasping heart


I think I could have then with you

wearing me on your hands

but you were only so

very sorry


  • Author: Heather T (Offline Offline)
  • Published: June 10th, 2017 17:19
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 28


  • swingline

    A lot of confrontation angst and anger but what of the sorry part .

    • Heather T

      Sometimes sorry just doesn't come with enough stitches. It didn't that day. Through time and purposing to forgive, sometimes hourly, it was healed.

    • Louis Gibbs

      My hope is that this poem provided some release from the experience for you, Heather. Yes, we've all been through it to one degree or another, in one way or another. Isn't that why we're here?

      • Heather T

        I suppose that's the truth, Louis. It's an old wound though, eight years gone. We're good now and that's what matters. I thank God for that.

      • Fay Slimm.

        Wounds like this heal only with slow and heartwrenching attendance to the word called forgive - your imagery sinks deeply into this reader's core - thanks for sharing this painful snapshot of yesteryear Heather.

        • Heather T

          That is truth. Forgiveness on purpose. Appreciate your kind reply.

        • Lex

          I very much enjoyed reading this! It's a very deep, engaging write

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