“Not another Saint”

It was then
that I knew
I was not
one of them.
I had limits.
Saints didn't.
Saints could be
tortured,
burned alive,
beheaded,
and pissed on
afterwards.

I always thought
I might've been,
so I let it go
and let it go,
thinking I had
the capacity
to take it and
keep on going.
But
it was then
that I knew
I was not
one of them
and she had to
go
or I had to
go.
One of us
was going
to go.

Neither of us
had been
Saints.

narrative poem written on 05-18-2017 by: on mattkane.com
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