If I said what I’m thinking,
you’d hear a beautifully written stream of
cacophonous curse words.

If I could go back to that day,
I would have watched the pure whites of your pretty blue eyes,
burn and drown in the undeniable guilt
of my own ugly blue tears.

“It’s better over the phone.”
You’re voice is profoundly stupid.
As I answer, my own is high and feeble.
“Of course it is…”
Not.

I’ve swept through the dictionary,
preparing the most hateful combinations,
of adjectives, nouns, and verbs,
like weapons of pain and destruction,
and I wish dearly to fling them at you.

You wouldn’t dare run, would you?
You’re unbelievable conscience would keep you glued
to the ground before me,
heavy, weighted and pained
by my infantile torturous rage.

I suppose I would feel better,
only for a few moments.
Because I surely cannot relish,
in the unnecessary pain I cause.
And I know its wrong,
to hurt such a saint,
who I have loved for so long.