because in this fog fugue 
light comes from the flint strike 
of another man's words sparking 
with the same air of a schoolboy's glass
atop an ant trail and you would think 
after the first time i would have learnt 
to stop holding my chest up to press 
against this blade picking at my ribs 
whittling down all my longing until 
the dagger weight of it falls through 
one more bandage to soak in a bloodletting 
that began from when love and pain 
first walked together clutching hands 
and refusing to let go just like my mother 
when she held mine while she cradled
my rag doll limbs telling me that our swollen faces 
were nothing next to our father's 
and that his rage was only a difficult guest
that i would one day grow to understand