My kindness toward you wanes
And I am sad.
If my trust were blind and my soul innocent,
Perhaps my kindness might grow.
But I am weary, sometimes breathless and weary
Over the times I must second-guess
Whether you will strike me,
Knowing indeed that it is easier
For you to hurt me
Than for you to risk losing
The little you have.
Posted by ruth at May 15, 2003 05:23 PM
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