[ I hurt him with my poetry: ]

I hurt him with my poetry:
each individual word prodded,
burying itself under his skin,
a reminder of irreversible mistakes.
Stanzas and poems grew,

developed into cancerous tumors
clinging, connecting his heart
to my heart, brain, and soul,
whispering the truth.
When he told me of the pain,

I found no way to diminish it
as the words were facts
already written, already formed
into the flow which explained
"I still love you,"

is not equal to "stay by me forever"
or "I will always be there for you."
I found an urge to explain
the doubt voiced in poetry
was born of circumstance, not
absence of love, but only

heard myself say that he could
not hold doubtful thoughts
against me – I’d no way of knowing
how to make him return, no
confidence that he would.

His silent response echoed
my knowledge: he understood,
but the understanding
made it all the worse.