Sledgehammers shatter marble floors.
The house is on fire,
and yet you can’t resist the urge to come inside and decimate it even more,
because you can’t wait!
You can’t hold your impatience,
You can’t hold your anticipation,
to watch the structure fall apart,
to watch the foundation crack apart,
to watch the doors slam, but not on their hinges but onto the floor,
to let the windows let in fresh air but not because they’re open but because their glass is shattered and on the floor.
You look outside through the hole in the wall that you left behind and you see the verdure:
the trees are colored orange but it’s not Autumn,
the flowers colored red but it’s not spring;
the colors that surround you are the colors of your shallow, rancorous anger and pain.
That which you’ve now expressed, fervent but blind.
And in ten minutes you’ll be finished, and you’ll leave without a second thought or glance behind.
And in ten hours you’ll be happy.
But in ten days you will look in the mirror and see that you’re contrite,
and in ten weeks I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep from your neck the knife;
the knife that lays on your bed,
bloodied red.
Bloodied red from the enemies you created in your head;
the enemies that are no more real
than the hatred that you feel for those that hold you dear.