I want to scream

in my anguish!

Tear out my hair!

I want to wash my eyes,

to wash my brain

of what I see

of what I read.

You write about her

to her

She writes about you

to you

An insipid volley

of erotic desperation.

Am I sick in the head?

I must be

Because

through the torment…

through the blinding red

of my anger

my intolerance…

I’m still left

 wishing

that I was her.

 

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