Hot Coals

Well excuse me
for these pent up words
and my long winded laments,
for I have forgotten to realize
that you hardly care.

And pardon me,
for mentioning these memories I relive
retrace, reveal, remember,
for it is only now that I see,
that you don't think of me at all.

And how can you sleep
with the knowingness of guilt?
and how can you dream
when I can hardly shut my eyes?

You're still stopping and blocking, and locking me up.
You're pushing and pulling, and holding me down.
You're breathing and scheming, and feeding me lies,
You're unaware, godless, and convinced of my demise.

But do you not know me?
Do you not know who I am?
You have not chosen some small child
or some silent lamb, so easily led,
but rather a conqueror so bent
on seeing a heavenly, divine justice.
You owned the hand that fed me,
and it is your poison I now reject,
And as my teeth sink further into your flesh,
I can muster up nothing that looks like regret.

Two

Dear Mr. Blue,

I am aware of you
in a way you may not understand.
I hide between library stacks,
I run to empty hallways,
trying to lose you.
Or at least the feeling of you.

In a week you created me,
with a reality you carefully orchestrated,
only to pull the hypothetical plug
without warning, reason, or rhyme.
I scream "injustice!" with a tired voice,
and you sit in your chair and chuckle.

Abomination, I say.
It's the only thing I can say. . .

Yours,

Eleanor.