Wrath

I am a thing of anger. I am angry as never before.

Why did she do this to me?

I thought we were - I don't know what I think we were

but she was with me. With me!

What was the whole point? I swear I could kill her.

I'm sorry to disappoint but I'm not going to let her go.

I'll fight teeth and claw. I'll fight her if need be.

What she did was absurd. Look at the mess she's left.

Why did she do this to me, to us, even to herself?

She should have been honest, she should have talked to us.

Out with all her petty secrets! Out with all the festering pus!

She is insane. Insane. Or bipolar. Or both if you can be both.

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

She was the reason I was thinking,

the reason I woke up in the morning and not in the afternoon.

It was her who made me stand up, stick out my chest and move on.

How I hate her now. I am a thing of hatred.

How I loathe to have to go on on my own.

Yes, I hate her. I hate her now as much as I hate God.

Perhaps more, for God washed his hands clean of us for a good reason.

Her? How she did this makes it clear: we were nothing but gnats,

threats, thwarts in her delusion, pallid, crippled spats,

shards of reality in her carefully constructed queendom.

Yet she had made me come back to reality;

she had smoothed its sharp angles, had made it bearable –

yet slightly dreamlike and unstable in her oddity –

She was what I looked forward to on the evening way home from work.

She had made me expect when I had given up on hope. She.

I hate her guts now. Say that she comes back,

smile on her sleeve, glitter in her cat's eyes:

I would torture the truth out of those,

and leave her to her fate, let her to her reverie.

The genealogy of the catastrophe

is distinctly laid out before me:

agendas, memos, diaries –

I should ignore these,

ignore the pain, ignore the shock,

feign, spurn, mock –

keep the things under lock and key,

pay the fee and dash –

bury her five furlongs deep –

burn her – burn the whole world along

and sweep the ash under the rug.

She lived the lie till the end,

drank the cup of deceit to the dregs.

She believed it as she birthed it,

like a crooked infant one yet cherishes.

Shameless, consummate liar!

You nailed us with scornful pegs.

You are evil. Dizzyingly evil.

Uncaring and vile. Full of bottled-up anger.

I in turn am a thing of wrath. Of blood and wrath.

Eager to slay you, and you only lest I follow your path.

Yours are the furious actions of a mad solitaire.

Furious and savage and hurtful and rash.

Yet one thing I have to give you credit for:

you know how to finish off with panache.