The depths

My pain was a blade
sharper than any knife
And its sheath
my tongue, which housed it
And the words that
caught, bled, feasted upon
their targets
Also cut away
many small pieces of
myself
This does not excuse
my sins, rather
explains the hunger
that later grew
to devour me

Charades

Tell me, where is the love?
Is it hidden in the pages of our book?
Scattered amongst the tears
or crouched within the shadows of hate?
I can taste it,
the aftertaste of our bitterness.

Is it the mask of our desperation?
Or simply a prelude to the panic?