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I Don't Know Why You Cry

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I can draw
from the burden of your gaze –
hidden, desperate eyes,
a lavishly painted, quivering lip –
and from the venom in your voice
that I am Satan and
Santa Claus in one.
My presence is deemed dangerous
like a detonator
and I sound like a bomb, ticking…
But I don’t explode. I am a dud.

At times I would raise my hand
warmly to wave you hello,
and you’d cower for fear I’d strike.
Give a child knives
instead of hands, and watch him
as he tries to hug.
And then kick him for causing pain.
But my blades are not sharp. I am dull.

Still, I hope the cuts on your arms
spell my name.
And that the vast, black void
that was once your pounding ocean,
is filled only with the cracked,
hollow echo of my voice, taunting:
You leapt into my pool,
too bad you couldn’t swim.
Tragic as a fish without gills, flapping,
heaving for air.
But I would not have drowned you. I am not deep.



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stormz_of_fire said...
Feb. 21, 2013 at 6:33 pm
Wonderfully written! I'm felt like this before, when someone thought I had bullied them and I had just been standing near the bully.
 
EliHiebert This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Feb. 23, 2013 at 2:53 pm
thank you. it is frusterating, and can make the most innocent person feel like the villain.
 
. said...
Feb. 21, 2013 at 4:15 pm
I like the imagery, the child with the sissor hands. beautiful.
 
EliHiebert This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Feb. 23, 2013 at 2:49 pm
thank you very much
 
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