Pain is a funny thing
When we get down to it;
Because nobody chooses to get hurt
And yet
We put ourselves in situations
Where the only options
Are a knife to the back,
A noose we tie ourselves,
Or the knowledge that we may have to
Do it to someone else

At the end of the day, though
Some days
When my mind gets carried away
On the winds of the past
That smell exactly like you
I know that I’d rather
Dance on my own poet’s grave
Just so you could love me again.