I’m Still Angry
I’m still angry, a month later.
When I see you,
my shoulders still draw into clenched balls of muscle,
an anvil plummets into the pit of my stomach,
I’m struck with the kind of helplessness that wracks my legs with trembling.
I imagine plunging a knife into my side,
dropping it on the ground with a smirk,
and finally collapsing into the heap of hurt and humiliation
from this deep ache you forged in me.