Angry

I am angry.

I want to kick and scream.

I want to tell everyone how bad you were in bed.

But I don't.

Because it was the kind of bad that made me want you to hold me

and listen to your heartbeat,

it made me not want sex

but focus on the parts of the relationship I had previously neglected.

But now I am angry.

So angry I want to shout at you with all the passion we lacked,

for being more attached to the drugs you used to fill the void

rather than me.

But that makes me sad because you're so much better than your addiction.

But the fact that I feel any emotions at all for you makes me angry.

Because as long as I'm angry

and I'm shouting

you can't hear how hurt I really am.

Because what makes me so angry

is that I could list 104 things you do that I love.

And that list would only be one of thousands,

possibly millions.

But I'm too angry to read you these lists.

And you're too high to care.