An eruption of rage echoed from her pouty lips,
chapped from the constant screaming.
She had to run out of breath sometime, didn’t she?
She never has.
Her arguments have lost all credibility over the years,
the false accusations on the brink of hilarity,
comic book rip offs.
But this is my story,
no matter how hard she may try,
gripping at my words,
twisting,
breaking,
they can never be yours.
You’re not the editor of my life.
Shiny metal toaster (the supplier of many precious pieces of toast),
crash,
bang, boom,
crack!
It’s evidence etched into the floor with silver splinters,
the only proof of it’s existence.
Rest in piece.
She stops,
looks up,
violet eyes boring into my own.
A pause in the battle,
the smoke has cleared.
Seething through flared nostrils,
don’t you know?
You’re not so hot when you’re pissed.