triptych #4 (Closing My Eyes To Pretend You Don’t Exist)

1.

Powerless to hurt you,
I focus my insignificant, transient
wrath onto a brief memory.
I can only pray, that God
may deliver me from hatred,
as only He can.

2.

Lying together,
the folds of the blanket
cover our exposed selves:
a ritual; a burial.
Even though you are gone,
I listen for your footsteps still.

3.

Sometimes I dream of you. What takes over me after isn’t sadness or melancholy, but a strange, swelling spring of anger. I close my eyes. I remember what my counsellor told me once before: when struck with an urge, an addiction, focus your energies on visions of something else. In this case, my muse is a static screen. Tune in, zone you out. Tune in, zone you out. Tune in, zone you out. Tune in, zone you out.

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