A Birth Of Anger

a cold dead drift of dust
across my unfeeling shoulders
is your life, my heart, my
failed dream of human warmth.

I thought I could feel you
or your breath, at least,
across my face, warm and sweet,
blood-warm breath, sweet life,

but no. You left me, left me
cold and empty and alone,
left me breathing your breath
that you left behind, empty

of warmth, empty of you,
of me, of love, empty, oh love,
my heart my heart, where did
you go, why does your sweet

slender body no longer touch
mine, why am I so alone
with your memory? Where the
fuck are you, bitch? Huh?

B.T. Murtagh


~ by B.T. Murtagh on November 20, 2007.

3 Responses to “A Birth Of Anger”

  1. (0)(0)< --- eyes bugging out of my head at the effective ending.
    (I)(I) am not sure the title, though apt, is best.
    Are you seeing anyone?

    A Therapist, I mean. (in friendly fun)

  2. PS. Leave off the last “Where?” I think. (If you are seeing critiques.)

  3. Thanks, anonymous. I always take critiques, except from my therapist. 😉

    I stuck the excess “Where?” in as a pattern-breaker, but I think you’re right; it’s too much or not enough, and I lean toward the former. It’s out of there.

    I’m going to keep the title until and unless I think of something better, though.

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