I touched you with the sharp side of my tongue,
The side that doesn’t care which way you fall.
Then I knew I hurt you like I hurt the flying ants,
Who had no where else to go.
Yet I murdered them on the cold tile of the bathroom floor,
And their voices in unison were so tiny that only the Universe could hear them.
You are like that too.
When I use the serrated edge, you never cry out.
You only love me more,
And then I am left to stand in the damp, dark place of self-loathing.