Wednesday, April 4, 2012


I handed you the knife
that fits exactly
between ribs two and three.

Long after we ran out
(of excuses, of joy)
it's still bleeding
right there.

And I wonder if you
had slid it in
knowingly or not
and if it makes a difference
in the hurting.

Maybe it does.
Because if you had hurt me
without even trying
(without even knowing)
then maybe what we had
wasn't love.

Christine Fojas
Note: I wonder at what point I'll start writing happy poems?

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