The bile backs up its ducts pouring out into the streams of anger and misplaced love. Seeking for an object, seeking a love of self which has been abandoned, the vanity jealousy throws this surge of feeling out into the world’s view, landing upon…

Who I am, at war with who I am-not; the am-not, another person, different from the me I’m supposed to be, yet still me. Push, kick, hurt, kill. And why? But, why? Is it a question of rights, of deserving?

Do I not have enough, what I was promised, what I tell my self I was told? Like the snake or spider or thing of wrong shape, impinging; is it simple, the hate? Kick, stomp, squash, squish, reach out from the fright like falling off into ledge’s abyss?