The Bomb Poem by Alistair Adkinson

Is this what I want?
An ugly detente?
A cold and silent war?

And don’t we both already know the score?

Did I force her to unravel,
to come clean,
for this?

Did all my scrutiny
and threats of mutiny
lead me to my own demise?

And was it really such a big surprise?
For her?
For me?
For anyone with eyes to see?

Now some might say I had it coming,
and with that, I might agree,
but that doesn’t stop the blood from running,
when a knife slides into me,
when I’m slammed head-on into a tree,

when I am reluctantly set free.