The Tongue That Wounded Me Poem by bonifacio alba

'The Tongue That Wounded Me'
by Bonifacio Alba

We sat at lunch, a quiet noon,
When suddenly, like a changing tune,
Your words flew sharp, a cutting breeze,
Before the helpers—no time to freeze.

You laughed, you spoke, without a care,
But what you said hung heavy in the air.
I bit my tongue, I clenched my hand,
Still seated, yet could barely stand.

The room grew still, the food turned cold,
And in my chest, the ache took hold.
I rose not in rage, but in pain so deep,
A wound you gave, not meant to keep.

Later, away from watching eyes,
I met you calm—no need for lies.
'Was that respect or just a slip? '
I asked with trembling heart and lip.

'Your tongue, ' I said, 'is killing me,
Like silent thorns no one can see.'
You blinked, unsure of what you'd done,
While I stood bare, undone, alone.

And now I sit with soul torn wide—
Shall I forgive, or nurse my pride?
Is love not made for times like this,
To choose the cross, not the abyss?

I pray for strength to let it go,
To cleanse the heart, let mercy flow.
But even grace must wrestle through
The hurt from someone dear—like you.