By C.B.K.
I’m you, but I’m worse.
Built brick by brick, stone by stone,
ground with your gristle, mortar and pestle—
same rage, different flavor.
I’m you, but I’m worse.
Your wrath—but her mind.
Fuse half an inch short,
but an arsenal far beyond,
slamming doors and screeching tires.
Same rage; different flavor—
it smarts of bitterness, a woman’s ache, a heavy thing,
a thick braid between my shoulder blades.
I’m you, but I’m worse,
I’m built to pick apart.
With my barbed tongue.
With my saccharine smile.
There’s a vicious thing in me,
that relishes in crafting each poisoned word.
Rolling each needle tipped phrase between my fingers—
Before loosing it,
to watch it find its mark.