two.

Something akin to that super-fast pop a light bulb makes

A volatile ammonium-nitrate burn in an open wound

The feeling of being struck, intentionally, in the head

These are my memories you.

That ire of resentment that you harbor as a badge

Like a trash ship frigate in an extended stay on port

You love me like a tree that bears fruit

You consume it

And pat yourself on the back for the wonderful job you believe you have done

All the while diluting yourself

That nothing can grow without the misery you cause

Putting yourself between everything, unnecessarily

Belie-ing  my reality that you are obsolete

and dependent upon the fruit of the misery-tree

& I have to admit, it is quite addictive.

I think of you as the bad dream, I never wake from

Where satisfaction is knowing that you have left your mark,

On, an within me

A certain pleasure I imagine

Of knowing that in the dirge of my life

Half of the lines are committed to you

As the eyes ignite in the hatred

you had for my father

in the pretext that if you can damage me

in some celestial carnage way,

it could echo back to him

but he’s fucking dead, and he never cared

unfortunately I will stand at your casket

alone.

As your pickled heart outlives

The countless lives of the friend you don’t have

Because you could have any

Because you were 20 and with child.

I look forward to that day and imagine purchasing the cheapest, stupidest, poorest specimen of Lagerstromia Speciosa

But even I have more heart than that.

And more empathy than to give something as bad a start

as you gave me.