She carved on me like a piece of cherry wood.
Her switchblade words laid my soul in shavings on the diesel soaked floor.
Oh how she carved me!
Each pass of her knife laid my dark wood bare.
Slicing my strength away until I covered the floor.
No pattern in her chaos, no love in her heart.
Just a long blade cut as my dark sap ran.
WBA 2008
I remember this poem. It makes me sad.
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