I lay this raw, raging heart in your hands,

And you find it charming.

Its ferocious passions are only a  distraction.

Every painful beat is an unheard cry for you.

Yet you merely see a friend's unhappiness.

While your careful hands try to cover the scars,

Driven by a blunt concern,

Each gentle touch is another denial, another wound.

You hold it close and reject it all at once.

Your genial warmth  drives blades across the tender flesh,

Drawing fresh blood with every stroke.

Your  soft, confidential whisper is deafening in its shortcomings,

And your secrets and dreams are delivered with unspoken conditions.

You are not at fault,

Acting out of compassion.

Blind to this selfish ache that pulses,

Your sweet oblivion

Is  my torment.

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