Dancing

The pain of growing up and the damage it creates

Dancing

When I was young,

when eyes saw only wonder,

I would have danced with

the shadows

caught inside your head,

entranced as they whispered

mystery into my heart.

But lips,

polished sharp 

as razor blades,

kissed tears into those eyes,

some time back when, 

and my artless soul oozed red

from their honed edges. 

And the gashes left

in those buried wounds

hemorrhaged long into the years

to color sight 

with the flavor of blood

and drowned the heart

with a distaste for dancing.