Prick

I told you, 
there was a grey
day in December
when I spoke.

And you told me
otherwise,
with your words in 
my mouth.
And the heavy feeling
of bitter fruit
clung to them,
choking,
I left.

Your hands
never touched me,
but I felt
it,
a stinging
across my face.
It swelled in the coming days,
and I knew it
was you.

The doctors opened
my face and 
found teeth
and veins
and  a golden
splinter
placed there by the gods
to destroy you.