Untitled

It used to be that you could cut me
Deep with an invisible knife
To the bone, and the sly twist at the end
I would struggle for breath
All tears and shame
And my emotions would surge
Over your wrist and arm
In great gouts, like blood
On a murder scene.
I became harder for a while
And the shell seemed to work
It didn't hurt so bad to
Be flayed open by a casual word
Or gesture
Of course, I couldn't maintain that,
So I fell apart in a spectacular rush.
In putting myself back together,
I became softer and less wounded
It doesn't seem to matter as much
One way or the other if your arms
Are stained with emotions,
I have plenty more
Where those came from.