"Dissection"

"Dissection"

You were my reason
for my pleading with life;
believing that time 
should not push forward
while moments like this happened.
Wished to stand between reaction
and initial intent.
What would not be
we would invent.
That's why it felt real.
What was felt
and what I feel
are as blurred a line as any
and the stitches have not healed within me yet.
You might regret,
but please don't relent.
Just tell me:

This Is Not Love,
is it?
This Is Separation. 

Distracted by elation.
Slipped behind the blind fixation.
Foundation of fissures.
Foolishly running with scissors
until dismembered in defeat.
Do you remember how discreet
your retreat wasn't?
Was it enough to see
the least exposed part of me
to make that your excuse?
Left me laying here in languish
to tend and bandage through the anguish.
How does that not spell abuse?

In your truce
and your soft words
heard as familiar
as the first long conversing
are poorly hidden hints of rehearsing.
Your aim to nurse the situation
through contrite tone and dissertation
Made this feel more like visitation
moments before the door would close.
Who noticed your voice
from the choice of dozens?
I came on risk
and you left me nothing.
Would not desist.
No.
We both felt something.
Just mind your wrist.
You swing blades while running
and your wind bends metal.
Before you swing,
let's get this settled:

This Is Not Love,
is it?
This Is Displacement.

Less than sufficient replacement
running in place with hope
for what was not as it seemed.
Distance of the dreamer.
The believer left benign
maligned and mangled
in what we both said we wanted.
Still haunted by what was heard.
Words that cleave the knees and ankles
left me sprawling,
had me crawling
as a sinner to the altar
but I was meant to be sacrificed.

From this height,
the light revealed the vision.

This Is Not Love.
This Is Incision.

Made your decision
without the degree of precision
needed should you operate.
Could have at least thought to sedate
before you grabbed the scalpel.
I've been trampled.
I've been robbed.
Shrugged in scrubs
to finish the job.
Would pull myself up with the handle
but as we kissed,
my wrists dismantled
now rest on the mantle in mockery.
We were hypocrisy
and I fought to force it
but can't fight the forceps.
You have me exposed.
Went to reach for the rose
as if there were no thorns.
Thread and tissue torn
and I still cling to the illusion.
I leave each lodged in my skin
because I fear the profusion.
I long for you
but you're hurting me.
You brush
but I rush with some urgency.
You push away then scream emergency.
Why the delay?
Why not?
Just murder me

Because This Is Not Love.
No.

This Is Surgery.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz