proximity to misery

fine
call me crazy
call me too sensitive
because i live too close to a handgrenade of bitterness
that seems to want to explode near me
and my jacket can't take this flack
after everything else in the world
Gil said it
'home is where the hate is'
and i still can't figure out
his own towards me
silent needles
and cold shoulders
make for warm tears
and fists gone humid upon walls
punched in frustration
and dreams of happpiness
and peace across the evening table
go the route of Cain and Abel
and i'll let go of it in time
this sadness
that sits in the mouth like a rotten lime
and a little bit of care
expires in the wisps of regret
i'm tired of my proximity to his misery
blood doesn't call for ties
to be cut
yet.