January 4 Rage
armada of
viciousness
ice knife words.
You know those
mornings, one
word does it.
His friends,
his mess. Inside
my blood, a black
flower blooms,
such broad
spiked leaves
I can’t breathe
January Rage
he leaves, a
rash of
viciousness, thick
smoke I can’t
breathe in. I
can’t let go,
each grenade,
closer to
its target.
One phone call
to his machine
won’t do it
Like all wars,
dark wreckages
blooming from
what’s already
a shell of itself
Rage, January 4
It starts with
cat poop
in the bathroom,
starts with
his verbs of
knives, a
look. You know the
way one or 2
things, a bottle
of pills on
the floor, the
sheet pulled too
far from your side
sets you up for
more shit
