And then the fury

and then the fury

And then the fury!
When I remember what she did
What I did
“They weren’t lies,” I tell myself
“They were stretches of truth”
But I saw it, I saw what would happen
And the box dies, the light is crushed in my hand
Familiar armor becomes uncomfortable but I fail to strip it off,
Searching for a boat that comes too late to sail me away
The rain beating on my window in the night
Afraid to change and leave the buoy of safety that image presents
And I stand alone, and I sit, and I write
In prose or poetry; who cares? What’s the difference?
In pencil or pen, does it really matter?
Knowing the end before the beginning
Helpless to stop it
Knowing you can but choosing not to
Remembering, remembering, remembering
Wondering how she really feels
How they really feel
How you feel
And then the fury