The sword has hung over my head for so long
I sometimes forget it is still there,
Glittering sharp edge aching to taste blood
The sword has hung over my neck for so long
I forget she still holds it,
Her nervous fingers twitching
In anticipation it will taste blood
The sword she thinks I use against her
Is an illusion, carved not out of wood
Of my own making, just hers,
Operating with no hand on the hilt,
Though it glistens the way hers glistens,
An impasse, the same pending doom,
She thinking my hand holds it
When I do all I can to hold it back
Partly because if this sword fall on her,.
Hers falls on me,
And we both lose,
Though she has less to lose than me.
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