I could look like a War victim,
knees battered, bashed and bruised,
a long rip running up and down my legs.
Blisters linger at the edges of my feet,
and my lips are stained berry blue.
I don’t know if I love you,
or if this is only a blissful fling,
and these looks are just interested glances,
and this unnecessary hand squeezing is joke,
and some outstretched arms and forward steps are nothing more,
than imagined illusions.
How can you be so cold, laughing at my expense,
yet pretend to love me so well, in our own stories?
