Don't tell me
what you can show me.
For the world is full of
many silver tongue men
wrapping phrases in bows and ribbons.
I have felt their grand paragraphs
fall and crumble before.

Words are just the tissue paper
sometimes a bow or box.

So, don't tell me
who you are, or how you love me.
Show me.

You have become a butcher
carving flesh to bone,
only to repeat the
movement; knife in hand.

How did this happen -
I am the lamb,
helplessly watching
you raise the knife
above your head -
gleam in eye -
destruction in hand.

Please, just tell me we're happy
even though the tones of the sky
have been painted grey
and your face is stuck in a frown.

Just tell me we're happy,
here.
Building castles in the sky.