Winter

You spoke with feathers protruding

from your shoulder blades,

sharpened

from leaning over defensively

for far too long before I met you.

You were decorous when necessary,

speaking with a tongue

sweetened with lovely honey,

warping your cruel words into

the most beautiful things.

The day you twisted your words

into my reality

was the day I lost myself

for the first time.

I began to speak with poison

cultivated

from biting down on my lip

and refusing my thoughts

for far too long before you met me.

I became resentful,

lashing out with hands

calloused by all we had been through

together.

I had transformed my hands

into instruments for my pain,

creating a cacophony

of discordancy

The day I held out my

formerly violent hands

and embraced the forgiveness

I denied myself and you

was the day I found myself

again.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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