I hold tight to a hot coal of the past;
I cannot set it free.
It‘s burned through my skin, melding to sinew and bone
becoming a part of who I am. (The
legacy of who you are to me. )
The heat of it smolders through my soul,
smoke curling through my veins, rushing through my
body with each heartbeat, clouding my perception
of what is real, what is believed.
I search for healing in you -
a graft of comfort, a pittance of peace - but
you pick at my wounds until they
bleed and fester infection borne of sorrow and loss,
eroding my resistance to melancholy and discontent.
Bitterness and blame are your only balm;
I realize - too late - my faith in you is misplaced
Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.