The Murderer Who Never Spoke a Word

It’s not what you say that’s killing me,

Its what you don’t.

The silence, with a serrated knife in hand,

Wreaks havoc on the inexperience of my heart.

The way you can’t show love,

Can’t speak it either,

Drains the air out of both of my lungs.

The roughness of your hands,

Holds my body and heart,

Crushes both and plays in its blood.

The tragedy constantly replaying in your eyes,

A red pickup, a spring day… May,

Breaks me more than anything ever could.

Your inability to let go,

To forgive yourself,

And the situation,

Pulls my insecurity to surface,

Floating above my skin.

The memories you share

And the stories you tell,

Etch incompetent into my dry winter skin.

Everything you never say,

And all the love you never show,

A warm day in May,

A glimpse into your painful blue eyes,

A stab straight into my patchwork heart.