Rolling, Boiling Over the Edge

Anger, tangible in the tense room,

the sense of somebody being sentenced to doom,

a palpable temperament fissioning thro' the air,

the sudden ripping, the frantic closing of the tear.

Nobody's crying, not right now, not any eight

seconds from now, not when it almost seems like fate,

but even though its appearance takes the form of something

doesn't mean it is, and the sight of a bronze polished ring

on his finger only serves to make him angry. But he

needs to learn that she doesn't belong to him, that she

is her own person in her own time.

And though her life often has no reason or rhyme,

it is not an excuse to become what you are not,

and she will not, can not, stop him even when he fought

himself, even when the punches always end up bruising his

face with enough distraction, and it always seems to fizz

up eventually, bubbling over and staining the floor.

And he says, 'certainly not' and points to the door.

The End

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