I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
Folded delicately in the corner of the room,
Limbs collapsed around each other,
Coordinated in the most triumphant defeat,
And holding the empty treasure chest loosely.
The corner is dark.
Perched gently upon trembling limbs,
Facing introspectively, hiding from sight,
But searching for the last piece of gold,
Or the last diamond hidden inside.
The corner is dark and lonely.
Holding up the crumbled shell,
Two porcelain feet jut out,
The tips curled over and cramped,
But not strained by its empty container.
The corner is dark, lonely, and cold.