I doubt it,
doubt that
anything could scare
the anger the hatred the bitterness
from the corners of your
heart.

Buried in self-loathing,
you do not
understand that
violence is not merely
hitting people
with fists whips hockey sticks
'til blood seeps through skin.
Violence is more than
bruises blood broken bones –



bludgeoned brains



beaten bodies.

Violence is the words that
erupt slither squeeze
out of your mouth – words that
don't slide off like
the straps of her dress – words that
remain, permanent as the lifelines
of my palm. Violence is the
casual ignorance the nonchalant cruelty
the detached barbarity of it all.
Violence pools in your heart.
I know.

I have watched it there, have
stretched torn sacrificed
trying
to make room for you,
have licked wounds from
your daggers, have
wished –

For what?
A white flag?

There is no
pity sympathy empathy.
Instead,
fear anger hurt, things
that I have no room for
in my heart.
So I say good-bye and promise you this,
yes, I promise you this:
Your violence will not pass forward.

Your poison
I turn to medicine.