Mad

It is easy
to carry a torch
& pitchfork,
easy
to be rigid
& hot with assumptions,
easy as
violent apathy.
Not difficult
to have
fire in your eyes
& angry ammunition.
While you are aiming,
you don't see the arrow in your own chest.
A tidal wave of fuck you
turned to a pool of regret.
Because
talking about it seems soft
although
it's harder to do,
harder because it says there's not just a me but a you,
harder to be vulnerable to pain,
harder to try to understand,
to let go of your weapons of defense in hand.
& I guess
smashing a window is one way to open one,
but it's not the best.