Writing A Poem About You, I Have Only Written About What I have Done To You

Twisted into a rigid spear
banged flat artifact
Ironbound and bent by
The dirty hands
of the blacksmith
Hammering away
in his dark den until
it fits his sharp shape,

He puts it to the flames to fit his image
making the material more malleable

My Iron glows; I have turned you into an arrowhead
and sheathed you in copper

Is this is what you
deserve? To be put to the anvil

by some gnarled hands that do not belong
to you? To be contorted into

Some violent weapon whose sole
purpose is to puncture
My flabby heart
To let my guts spill out
When I tear you from my chest
In disbelief.

Although the neck snaps in half
In my deflated attempt
To let it all fall out.
The point, apparently,
was lost in my own heart