By Izzy Weinstein
Loosely held in the palm of your hand,
Your Midas touch I’d reprimand,
But my impotence at your commands
Cries insolence to my heart’s demand.
Your secrecy marks cowardice,
Detested but I do not challenge it.
I am seemingly so powerless,
Plead mercy but you’re tireless.
I hate the way I don’t fight back,
But curtsy under your attack.
I’m fragile like a paperback:
Your words cut deep and don’t retract.
Embodied as a trauma symptom,
I wonder, is this Stockholm syndrome
By Izzy Weinstein
Oh what an art to draw that line
And walk away with those washed eyes,
A steady promise fixed in time,
A separate life to leave behind.
Oh what an art to find a soul
Where you feel safe, who you call home,
Whose touch is just for Love to know
Where poison weeds let flowers grow.
Oh what an art to let the rain
Seep through the scars and heal the pain,
The drops that cleanse defiled veins
And drowns the last new stranger’s name.
Oh what an art to just let go
Of someone that you used to know
Perchance to dream that next ‘hello’
Is that of whom who won’t forgo
‘Cause no one wants to start again
When lovers become your best friend.
