PTSD - 6: Dance

To know your face
so well
to trace the lines above
your eyes
to have found all
the secret flaws
to love you
still

To be destroyed,
ripped by words that
shred like shards,
blood drips milk
deceit and despair mingle,
currents of
spoiled innocence
rearrange
real and pretend.

How do I parse
disbelief,
real or
imagined? 
when
what was so
never was.

To love again.