i knew it hurt more than any other thing
you could have slung
you might have buried a knife in my back
or throttled the blood from my pounding
hands, but instead you hurt me
and i thought i might nearly have felt
the white pages pulling oxygen from
my lungs like a string
or else the words would have
hit me like monsters---
the prying claws of the letter 'y'
drawing out my heart with a bloody sweep
or the vicious blade in 'p'
punched and plunked and pummeled me
and 'love' and 'mercy' and 'forgive'
were clogged in the flaps of my throat
a story grew there:
a story, planted by the book
you see, you hit me with a book
and i can only retaliate
with a hundred more words to
spew like waste into
the hard of your brow.