It Hurts

Hope has hands as rough as clay

with holes and cracks

that cut and bleed

Love, like Hope, prefers to hide

behind the lies that mend my cuts

and trickle easy down my hands

they are young girls

who hurt to hold

within chapped hearts

if only I could

stoke their fire

shield them from my blood-warm tears

then perhaps Dame Luck

would smile down

upon my bleeding heart