Flint Poem by Amy Sutton

Flint.
Chipped.
Cold.
Jagged.
A broken figure
In a shattered mirror.
Torn.
Splintered.
Blasted by fire.
Barbed.
Glass in your haunted eyes.
Driving people away
With your whiplash tongue.
Every contour
Sharpened to a knife edge.

But if you let her,
She'd lie close
On your bed of nails,
Counter your cold
Cutting body
With her warmth
And soft lines,
And lose the pain
In a flickering candle kiss.
She's seen your soul reflected
In your mirror-crack eyes,
Beautiful and strange
Beyond anything she's known.
She wants to know where the reflection ends
And you begin.