Power Struggle--Originally Written February 2010

If every cut on my body is a tear in my heart,

Then how scarred my love is.

Beaten, ragged, thrown away and besmirched.

Unwanted: used, then destroyed,

Unfixable lest a new heart be given.

My love is useless.

If every bruise on my body is the dark face of anger,

Then how great is my fury. Mind infused with it,

My flesh soaked in the umbrageous rage,

Livid marks hideous grimaces to the pain,

Unquenchable lest new flesh be granted.

If every tear that I cry is a piece of my soul,

Then how shattered my essence is.

Broken and dropped, torn to shreds.

Unrecognizable, yet quiddative. 

Hopelessly lost lest, I die and meet my maker.
My soul is powerless.

If every drop of blood shed is a drop of hatred,
Then how deeply my hate runs.
It is part of me, a piece of my entity,
Irremovable without leeching my life.
It courses through my veins;
My hatred fuels me. Ω