sweet violence
can come with an open hand
or at the tip of a sharp tongue
it covers up the salty taste of tears
you call me “sweetheart” afterward
I can’t think of anything to say during dinner
that won’t sound like a lie
later, in bed, you lace your fingers in mine
I hold my breath like a condemned prisoner
my hair is turning gray on this diet of ashes
my tongue lies heavy in my mouth
I’m betraying the fading light beneath my skin
/ / /
It’s been a while since I finished a poem. I wrote this one at the Museum of Modern Art in New York today after seeing the “Sweet Violence” exhibit for the second time. Please go see it if you can.
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