Why should I forgive

when you beat me black and blue?

Why should I forgive,

when you never said ‘I love you’?,

until you got awfully, really ill,

and you wrapped me

in embrace,

a blankness on your face.

Because you never could connect.

You always hit my face,

my cheek, my neck.

Yet your depleted, needy form

removes my urge to skill, perform.

And so I sit, allowed and free.

Unforgiving keeps me trapped

between the oldest, youngest you

and a newer, freer me.