In my lazy left hand, I grip the dregs of mercy. 

I can not see her. 

I can not call or write her. 

Oh god, she does not even know the sound of my quivering voice. 

Yet I have spoken her name twenty times a day for five years.

Who among you knows how truly silent the written word can be?  

Who hears those prayers, when it is only a name spoken in reverence. 

Spoken to the empty... 

In my weary right, I hold a hidden rhythm.

 Something that transcends this simple curse. 

... 

I almost stopped writing for my words have become a stolen currency. 

Some scums ritual for his feeble "game" when the whiskey and cocaine won't peel her pants down. 

Something only a "good girl" would like or understand. 

But then glory has no shine if it is your bloody feet. 

I never knew some would dare to weaponize poetry itself. 

I foolishly assumed a poem could only damage the poet. 

Still, I click to the beat of some forbidden hymn. 

For my perfect love, if you hear one verse,  I will waste two. 

Never leave your work unsigned. 

Even if it is a bloody scrawl. 

~mliarrr