My Frayed Sleeve

For two decades
your salt-paste lies piled up
like pancakes on a cracked plate,
while you hammered at my heart,
delighting in the blood
which seeped
through my frayed sleeve.
Even if you’d believed
I would leave,
you would not
have been kinder to me.

I scribed you into history
long before
you ceased breathing.
Each shred of regret morphed into relief,
so there’s nothing to grieve –
leaving only a thin breeze of pity.


©Jane Paterson Basil

32 thoughts on “My Frayed Sleeve

    1. He died in January sometime. I don’t think about him, but the daily prompt; “Sleeve” reminded me of how, when we first met, I wore my heart on my sleeve, making it easy for him to hurt me.
      I’ll dredge anything up for the sake of a poem 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

        1. That’s what my daughter said to me this evening when I was ranting. Something has happened over the past couple of days which has brought it all back. Maybe I should try to clear it with a poem…

          Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you. The last stanza was tricky – I didn’t want to sound harsh. Folks get offended when you shrug your shoulders at death, but sometimes there’s nothing left to feel.


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