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
scarlet
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