I don't know how to be angry
with you, but my pride
demands I figure it out. It is so easy
to make monsters
out of the people I have loved, to
pick up a pen and
write "THIS IS YOUR FAULT" until
the page is full.
It is easier to make myself the
monster, to snap and bite
and run and hide. It is easy to bare
It is harder to be honest.
Nobody here has claws or sharp