As I was on the bus on St Valentine's Day,
That same image came to me again.
You, pinned against his mattress.
You, with your heels and hands clutching at him.
You, with your eyelids fluttering against his shoulder.
Like a little razorblade lodged in my heart.
And I realised it no longer hurt.
It wasn't that I was too tired, or too bored,
Or had burned myself cold since you'd left,
(Like the ember of some star flung out beyond hope).
It was just that I'd grown to like it.
It was still there cocooned in scars,
but the scars were harder than the steel;
Where it once cut, it now caressed.
I moved it back and forth within my heart,
And it warmed me.
It was just that I'd grown to like it,
My precious little razorblade.
And that's where we were on that St Valentine's Day,
You with your new lover,
And me with mine.