You tell me
what you needed from me.
How I should have…
loved you
desired you
adored you
opened erotically for you
redeemed you.
Designed for maximum wounding ability,
you explode like a pressure-cooker nail bomb
creating the widest possible range of destruction
with the minimum of effort.
You shower me with nails
you call compliments.
You sear my flesh to the bone with the hungry gaze
you think is flattering.
You blister my skin with boasts
of other women being attracted to you.
You detonate an expanse of shrapnel
every time you tell me of the love you deserve,
that you believe I withheld,
that you tell me
you will have,
come what may.
Oh, I did hold back,
tried too late to run from the ball bearings
black powder
nails
that erupted
last April.
Unsuspecting marathon runners in Boston
suspecting wife at home.
You filled your pressure cooker
with small metallic bits of rage
held your finger on the remote
activated it from the distance
of blameless righteousness,
the assertion that a lonely childhood
somehow gives a free pass
to a lifetime of terrorism.
It doesn’t.