It wasn't with knife
my body he tore,
it wasn't his hands
that made
my throat sore.
It wasn't a gun
that made the wound
in my chest-
i
f
e
l
l
o
n
t
h
e
ground
It was his words
that stabbed me through heart,
with no remorse
he tore it apart.
Imprisoned in self pain,
a living ghost
with hands wide open
to the darkest host.
_______________________ Issued in "Poetry Newsletter (November 11, 2015)"
Line Count- 18
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