How many nails do I have to have
hammered into my brain to realise
we don't fit?
This liaison has always been flawed.
Gel, we never did, but we had passion.
A wealth of it.
Should I take this hammer
and strike the final blow?
I don't know.
Hammers strike memories,
as though they're all piano keys
and the sound is harsh..
They have me re-visiting old war wounds
that I should have buried years ago.
They are awakening.
They've been dormant for so long.
Maybe I should have one final strike
and put them to rest.
The trouble is, if I pick up the hammer
and strike the first blow,
I may never stop
Ruth Walters
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bad-fit/