Perhaps I have been too kind

and that is the excuse I offer

for the delay in the telling,

for my chronic reticence, in the telling of my own story.

That, and the way your face crumpled as I spoke.

The reflection made me rethink

turn inward,

made me wish I could un speak the words,

the ones I worked so hard to bring to the surface,

un screwing them like arrows from my back,

learning to see the beauty in the scars.

Perhaps I have been too loud,

and that is the reason

you did not hear me,

could not look me in the eye,

needing to shut down your senses

for fear of being over stimulated.

Over the top,

out of control.

We have been there before,

out of control.

Maybe I should have added some sugar to my tone,

sweetened and softened my approach,

before I buried the hatchet deep in the furrow of your


Perhaps I have come too late

to this altar of your truth and beauty and

now that I have readied myself and set a steady course

I see that you have turned to leave

and all that is left to me

is your empty seat,

and the beginning of the end

of my self abnegation