we held steadfast
to our anger, tending
to our fragile egos, creating
witchcraft of our words, the other side
fogging over, no recognition left.
a careful setting, picked
by clumsy hands, a beautiful
showcase of ominous artifacts,
difficult to look away.
tended by another, a
poison vine, stemming,
wrapping, and coiling itself
around our ligaments,
forcing bestial poses.
our tears of frustration
served to strengthen the vines,
uncovering a path into our minds,
winding their way through our
hearts, poison pumping.
truth faded into a memory, each
believing all we wouldn't have believed
without the nudge, or familiar insecurity.
are we stronger for it now
we've laid the story out?
broken loose the ties held
around the other—how can
venom be sucked out
once a wound has closed?
how much poison
is left in the heart?
