A Woman Scorned

My anger stems irrationally from knowing
that I am loved mostly by myself and that I am alone
and that loneliness is a constant companion to the mind
that can somewhat consider itself.

I convince myself briefly that I would rather be dumb
and numbly going through the mundane motions,
whatever those are -surely something bland and lacking
internal zest and carnal frivolity
exhibited by minds riddled with scars that look like the word SIN
as if imprinted there by flesh crackers, the zealots ecstasy.

I can almost convince myself that mundane means happily oblivious
but even that sort of imaginary reprieve is tragically fleeting
existing momentarily before being dashed away
like the unfulfilled body of something small and new
tossed out of a car moving along the interstate
it lasts the span of one lovely swallow
before being beaten out by the thump of my mean soul,
its sweet and short like the intake of new air rushing over lungs
newly learning to swim, but taking too long and thrown in.

There's no obligation on the end of those I've chosen to receive me
or more specifically I mean those parts of me
which at the time seemed prepped for performance,
I recall no contracts saying that one must cherish me
THIS MUCH until I see fit, and yet
my anger is raw, a natural phenomenon forcing all things away
like the rushing walls of a hurricane,
it does not allow itself awareness or time to consider the injustice
of un-calculated devastation
and so it goes on casting small things asunder,
it does not even spare itself
but spirals out into dark bodies or rocky shores
reduced to unrecognizable drops of water.