Innocence eroded into nightmare.
All because of very bad touch.
Love, corrupted.

Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.
Easier staying pissed. But I’m
tired of being pissed all the time.
Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that
can never be fixed because it is
an indelible part of the past.

Honesty.
Sobriety.
My virginity.

No way to regain
the first two, I almost
gave away the last.

Hurt. Enough to want to make someone else hurt too.

Love is more than blind. It's brain-dead.

I trust the red sun setting,

the leafless November trees.

On Monday morning I look foward

fearlessly to Friday’s eve.

But humans are not as reliable

as nature, as trees.

I wonder if you’ll come back;

I trust only that you leave.