Not Even A Little Bit

Rage unfurls, a serpent fierce in its nest.

Its venom blooms like fire and sears with shame.

Yet still, I gouge at wounds, where venom rests,

And feed the teeth that call my blood by name.

I curse your name, but savour my decay,

A hymn of spite that clings to rotting lips.

You are the rust that stains the light of day,

The wound I tear with trembling fingertips.

I watch the splinters, shards jagged like bone,

Each one a scream that gnaws and claws my soul.

These chains, I forged with blood, the flesh I’ve grown,

A pyre of regret I cannot control.

Again. I clutch the knife. Inscribe your name.

A mark I carved in love, now sealed by shame.

Dorothea B