Saturday, May 14, 2016



She told herself that he was worth no more
Of all her tears and unrequited love,
Remembering the many scars she bore—
Betrayals, witnessed by the gods above,
That she had only learned of later, yet
So painful then, with wounds she’d buried deep,
That even now she still could not forget
Those gifts of venom that were hers to keep.
And yet, she loved him, more than honor, life—
That man who would not take her as his wife,
But stole her heart as none had done before
Or ever since.  She only wanted more
Of what he’d tossed her, knowing she was his.
So love was hate, as passion often is.

2016 May 14th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

For perhaps a more pleasant note, see:

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