for the weak at heart

You want to run to hide from all
you never wanted this;
it echoes in the weak tempest –
the tea and your heart twists.

Around, a dry coppery tang
circles a bloody silver spoon.
You wish it would never stop
but the crystals melt, too soon.

The black in your heart settles to base
the brown has dissolved every drop
of tears, of smiles
of broken pearls on a string,
it sours and stains almost all.

Laughs the bitter cynic and the naïve alike:
‘how could I ask for more?’
Was it the spoon the tea or the scarlet cup –
which was it that cut me raw?

And so I throw the question forth
the blame on whom to lay.
The world my life or my wounded heart
which one to be cut away.