Beware the Lasher

 

Beware the Lasher

 

Ask me what's wrong with me...

My mouth will tell you to stay far away.

My words will sound angry

But my eyes look wounded.

Furious frenzy is my suicidal tendency

And if you get too close I may turn the blade on you.

But my eyes say hurt and you can’t see them.

When I pluck the chirping phone up from its cradle in annoyance and demand “what?” of the receiver,

On the other end of the line, you can’t see my eyes

Which can’t lie to you.

You only hear my voice, like a raw nerve in a sandpaper world.

And you ask me what’s wrong with me.

I might say hungry or tired or excuse after excuse to justify irrationality that seems so unjust to the victim of self-infliction.

And you might feel guilty and get defensive

So I remain unsatisfied, I don’t want your blood.

But my eyes say just hold me and don’t ask me what’s wrong.

But you can’t see them from there.

 

© 9/29/99