A knife recoiled from the blunt truth.
It could not cut at its sharp edges,
That poked fun at all the grudges,
That I could ever hold.
Poked fun and reminded me,
Of all that I could never be,
And all that I had yet to escape,
And everything beneath the draped.
Lift it I must, yet never show,
To anyone else, lest it glow,
In a different light than the one I knew,
Or any different hue.
My lips were sewn together by the spell,
Of that blunt truth that fell,
With hard blows upon my heart.
Scars those have left –that still smart.