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
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.