I remember your voice
that chilled November night.
It matched the branches
of our favorite tree outside.
Cold and bare,
jagged and black,
slicing into the air -
both
as if designed by a knife.
“I would never lay a finger”
doesn’t really matter
when words can kill just as fast
or faster.
And leave no spatter.
Branches fingering into the grey sky
whistled in the choppy wind
I remember because that’s
what I tried to listen to
instead of your words
biting into my skin.
You were smart
in your choice of ammo.
The kind that leaves no mark
and never runs out.
Though I’ve escaped
I’m reacquainted with November each year
Her branches just as jagged
piercing
interrupting
Her grey-cloaked sky.
And the wounds you left
that have since scarred over
become a little more swollen
each year in November.
But every year, they’re smaller.
And every year, so are you.
And the fingering, jagged grasp
you once ivyed and grew,
dies
and a little more light shines through.
Though you shattered
and fractured
and pierced,
you didn’t destroy.
I’ve learned to position those crevices towards the light
rather than hiding them in the shadows
Because glass that’s stained and broken
belongs in cathedrals.
So every November
with its depleting light
I shine my cathedral windows
and pick up my pen to write
Because my broken pieces
will never go unused
carefully placed, they become my art
and extinguish the abuse.
Your ammo is my paint brush
Your target is my canvas
Your words may still have power,
but I control it.
