You called her a ****** bag
Mean and a prat
She said you were selfish
That your arrogance was a fact.

You said she was violent
And she said the same.
You said her love for me
Would only ever be a claim.

And she you would push
everyone close to you away
And you said she’d never care for anyone
Even for a day.

And you said she would leave
And blame our falling out on me.
She said you would fight us all for your
Self-righteous victory

I'm not sure I should say this
But I think that I just might
Because you were both *******
So, you both were right.

There's no hope of future friendship
Even if I wanted there to be
Because you both were awful
And you both hurt me.

Cup filled to the brim
with pungent liquid. Amber,
purple, clear: does it
matter? The clock is
ticking. The cup is not
the vessel which
                                breaks—

Crazy. Crazy, right? Maybe.
Beat the corpses, wait
for a pulse to remind you: Mother,
you’re not going crazy. You’re not.

The child only remembers
the muffled shouts.  
She doesn’t understand,
but knows to
keep silent—
head down, knees up, clutching
the stuffed Piglet. Bedsheet covers,
rising and falling. Breathe in
and out. Doors slamming.
In and out.

Someone must’ve pressed
Repeat. Must’ve thought
those saliva-choked screams
were cathartic. O Mother,
multi-platinum artist, more
than a million plays. Hit repeat.
Hit. Repeat.

Emails in crevices, muses
in hidden texts. Father asks
that you seek for inspiration
elsewhere. Fame asks
to keep that reservoir
of pain. Dig your nails
into skin. It is yours.

The young woman is  reminded
of the muffled shouts.
She does understand,
but knows to
keep silent—
head down, knees up, clutching
her stomach. Bedsheet covers,
rising and falling. Breathe in
and out. Doors slamming.
In and out.

Cup filled to the brim
with pungent liquid. Amber,
purple, clear: does it
matter? The clock is
ticking. The cup is not
the vessel which
                                 breaks—

The Thing about Logic is that it can be used to prove anything.

Words Of Harfouchism.

You take everything
she said,
everything.
I thought long and hard
about all the things I had
and all the things that
I can barely touch
and all the things that collect dust
and I thought about her fingers
reaching for things she thought
I held over her head
reaching up out of the waves
of the shadow her heart slept in.

So when you rang me up,
Just to scream abuse down the telephone line,
Before throwing yours against a wall,
I thought:
You should have been kinder,
If not for the sake of my bleeding ears;
Perhaps for the sake of the mobiles,
That held no fault,
Yet were forced to relay
each punch dipped in hatred,
thrown across the hurt we made.

Last time you called
Just to call me names,
I thought to say:
Don't shoot your messenger,
As you point the blame,
Think about our phones,
Before you take your aim.
But at least you called,
Could you call again?