Confession: a sonnet

In early fall, you said you’d call me near,

And tell me toiling trials inside your mind.

A cutthroat gift, of words you cannot find,

An endless game of “say it next week” fear.

Once soft, now painful, dry and sharply clear

That feelings can be packaged, but the bind,

So rough and careless, fully silver line’d,

Is bursting tunes of erroneous leer.

Because, you think a different way by now,

And turn those trials on tails to run away;

You give the tender truth a gleeful bow,

And sit, with gentle hunched resolve you stay.

Yet, now I am so cruel, another trial,

Because your gift causes my denial.