Anger is a knife in the back, twist and grind.
Sawing against the bones and serrating the mind.
The pain isn't physical, but it's the deepest of wounds.
You can feel it all over and inhale it like fumes.
Retching and raving, maddened and sick. It's not like a candle, it lacks a fucking wick.
Instead it's a fuse that crackles when ignited.
While he sits on the sidelines, grinning, delighted.
I hate you, I hate him, I hate everything he is.
But I can't do anything about it, except to sizzle and hiss.
Let it burn off, grease on the griddle.
Watch it fall away, little by little.
Until it's just me again and I can breath without a hitch.
I'll be fine until the next time I log on Facebook, and see you with him, bitch.