These feelings are still so raw.
A few years have sealed external wounds.
Now, you can’t see I’m still bleeding.
Before, I bet you thought
you held the knife that slit me open.
You’re wrong. Yours was a prop knife,
perfect for my little production.
When the lights went out
and the theatre doors closed,
I’d sit in a corner,
and putting the worst of them
in your mouth;
making sure you spit them out
like venom in my imagination.
The shards stuck everywhere –
in my mind, in your heart.
So all this time, you thought you’d hurt me…
I’m sorry. I was hurting myself
and made you believe it was your fault.
I still can’t stop the bleeding.