The Ties That Bind
You said that you didn’t love me anymore.
I thought that you were being cruel but
you were only being honest and,
honesty is the foundation upon which all lasting relationships are built and
I should know.
I’ve co-starred in one hemp-bracelet-sharing, high-school-love-story relationship before—
where the strings slowly unraveled after so many years spent
protecting my wrist from horrible harbingers:
a few strands cut once by the flak of a stone-saw
with which I built your mother a stone flower bed that
you and I never got to lay in together;
again, by the jagged reef in Puerto Rico during my first near-death experience—
only the bracelet stood between the sharp and my skin. . .
But then the bracelet begins to feel cumbersome and the unruly ends feel foreign to your wrist and
itch and scratch.
So you shed them, not knowing how many tears will follow
thinking only of how they kept you from bleeding.
When we cut ties,
I cut the last remaining strings of that bracelet from my wrist and
trimmed my beard with a dull knife.
I let your words wash over me, and
I wouldn’t lie to you, Honey—
it still stings after all these years.