I can’t unsee the ugliness he brought

When, after a long silence had ensued,

He placed his pains upon me, iron-wrought,

As overturning stones, both old and new

He—looking, looking, frantic, for a sign

To label what he saw and did not like

A sin (a grievous error, in his mind)—

Laid blame before retreating from his strike;

A cut which I still wear along my heart

And, even as I wince at each new stitch,

I sew with bloody fingers each torn part.

The wound, once healed, will probably still itch.

His ugliness I never will unsee

Yet, that reflects on him, and not on me.