You sit there with your chisel steadily
whittling away at my patience,
looking for wounds to reopen,
scouring for untouched places to lay claim to,
unmarked skin to scar.
With such singleminded determination,
its almost admirable,
over and over again you curve at my spirit,
until I feel like my sanity is lost.
Sometimes it is indeed lost.
You give me bruises and think I cannot see
that although they are hidden,
the gashes and slashes mark you too.
So when I hurt, when the pain is intense,
I remind myself that you don't know any better
and that you're hurting too,
that when you curve at me,
you want to make another you.
Am afraid I can only be me,
the anger and bitterness would only wear me down.
Jab and stab as much you like
but I'll forgive every cut and spite.
I only have time to be who I am,
I'm letting the wounds heal cause
I refuse to be another you.