Silence

A longing gaze

A laughing look

A holy mess

beyond the pale.

Should I chime in,

pile on,

add to gossips' gluttony?

No, I would stay silent,

lick my wounds,

taste my blood,

and wait for courage to arrive. 

Is it still betrayal

if the heart has never strayed?

They say speak plain,

but it's easier to sigh

and wonder, 
so I'll take these words

I dare not say

and put them on a plate

(tidy, unlike life)

then take out fork and knife,

slice them into bit-sized bits,

and ingest them one by one.

And if you ask me

who's to blame,

I will say I've seen the knife
and felt the cut.

These scars are mine alone.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.