I didn’t know you were an Iconoclast
and would tear apart my hope
Your deliberated words were horrible,
and echoed while I tried to cope

Levity and awfulness
scorched my very soul
If I wanted to poison myself
your words would be potable

It was similar to alchemy,
how you could alter euphony
Kind and rotund words
would become a hurtful symphony

You had an olfactory ability
to sniff out when I was weak
Striking me with verbal blows
until I couldn’t speak

And though things are not tranquil now,
I do suppose they’re better
I’ve burnished my rusty dialect
in this “not quite a love” letter