Same Shame Worn


I rarely get angry. Then the anger rose. And I moved my anger towards the pain and thrashed my tongue about the air.

A dangerous game played
your heinous smile
woven from lingering sin
worn dangling, unleashed
wounds folded into corners
frayed, spat upon.

How terrible to mimic beauty
the soul’s peace
thrashed about on threadbare couch
with pressed thorns
you chose to keep away.

Told to squash the anger,
I grab a plastic mask from the kitchen table,
don the fake skin
attempt a coup,
dethrone your yellow jacket.

My inner child, absent still
desires our glory moon.
Love falls short
of a bird’s wing to carry
our hearts to a land of cope.

You move and I remain.
Nothing changes this grief
to wander this earth
helpless. Alone.
Not lonely but without
a loving arm to hold.

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