Acetate

A never-ending series of losses that seem to creep up;
Claw their way up my spine;
Through my heart.
Each one finds my head as an exit point.
Yet another of God’s random acts of violence.
Job would be so jealous.
Or would he?
You are (n)ever wrong.
Winter comes as if it were a scar.
“I want you to let me hurt you,” he says
“I’ll only go as far
As leaving scars upon scars.”
Then pushing me away.

Sacrificial living is not martyrdom.
It is self-denial
which manifests as dead flowers.
Pain is not a virtue.
Heartache is not a cause worth fighting for.
Or is it?

Advice is like surround sound;
The blood splatter may sound excellent.
The reality is never quite the same.

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