How deep can you bury the hatchet so as to not creep out of the grave?
My heart opened, blossomed & was left bare. Raw, you gnawed at my flesh & left me to heal my own wounds.
I opened my soul foolishly time and time and time again. My offerings sent out into the atmosphere. Stung. Denied the turn of an olive branch.
Now you want back in. You want to bury the hatchet. You want to be friends.
My thoughts get caught in the space between my heart & my stomach.
I don't want them boiling up, spewing from my lips, hot.
I'm torn. Anxious. A love i once had, not reciprocated, but easily resurrected.
Are you digging the healed the skin, resurfacing your scab?
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