Sonnet #122

She always did wield words imprecisely,
And not much has changed in the passing years
She converses, politely and nicely
And I do my damned best to hide my tears.

I’m unlike badgers, wolves, or wolverines;
I’ve no fight in me for I heal slowly
So I cannot confront how well she means;
Still I’ve never felt more down and lowly.

If I could lash out from a place of hate
This inner fight would be over and done.
But such resolution is not my fate:
It seems this battle will never be won.