Hatred crawls around her
like a wounded warrior,
like a happy worm
as the words fragment the morning
in iridiscent pieces of anger.
she lulls and
nest it deep inside
like a crippled baby.
wrath is an addiction
when insanity is like
a passionate friend.
she harbors it easily.
(you know it's almost a
prized possession)
when the battles starts again,
she gets her wordy sword stabbing
both of them with care,
and as she tries to defend herself,
she doesn't know who bleeds more.
she sees no point in
thusting a dagger in her own heart
more and more each passing day
but life is like that:
confused and disorganized.
