seven years bad luck doesn't look like a broken mirror

I wear this fear
like a bruise you can’t see

I can’t save you
from these seven years bad luck

They say there is no rest
for the wicked
and if so
I hope he doesn’t sleep tonight

I won’t be
and not for the same reasons

Love spread like a sickness
that cut the circulation from your limbs
leaving you an emotional amputee
and you’ve admitted as much

Suicide looms like a guillotine
of guilt over your head
you don’t want him to die
and so you stay in the hopes
you can save his life
and martyr your own
in a cross-less crucifixion

I wear this fear
like a bruise you can’t see
remember the words
he had for your ex
”I’m going to cut his face off”
as though that was a rational response
to jealousy and the chemically
imbalanced conviction
that forgiveness and friendship
means spreading your legs
for things long dead
and no longer desirable

…Much like he’s become
in these days where abuse
is mistaken for holy verses
he’s branded into your skin
like a fallen messiah
with a death quota to fill

I wear this fear
like a bruise you can’t see
hoping you live through tonight
and every night to come
that you stay beside him

© Indie Adams 2015