Den of the Knife

She pains at another one who longs not her love, perhaps she should have been fitted for a better glove, is it agonizingly the she should have tried harder to grow into a new fit, want not growth forsake she must her oath, the pain of what she'd deem as failure an inch more deep than not seeking upkeep. Perhaps she wiser than both and to another she should have made oath. Long I not her glove still wish I she'd fit her glove. This one so worn with silent blood, the brooding opposed to what could be in bloom leaves not much room for any hand I could extend. She sits in wounds and waits for the end. I can't sacrifice myself to be her best friend, I wish I was not one of the ones she wants, the state of me in sacrifice is one that haunts, though for me it is of capacity, it's not the highest use of what I have to be. What me, not like the he that she wants me to be has at stake is lost on her by what might be her mistake. I wasn't overly there when she made her vow, half my life I've simply wondered, how? Was the long for love too blinding for it's actual finding? Bless him for his initial sacrifice, but now what's the price? Two now robbed of all they deserve, and I in the middle expected to double the mistake built from what both neglected. Wish you may my skill, but never my life, a magician with a pen in the den of the knife.