I feel the stress climbing down

My neck,

Sneaking into my shoulders

And tunneling on down.

Every time his tone

Goes to that sharp place.

Every time a conversation goes to

That weary edge of push and pull and

Push again.

The argumentative, know-it-all nature.

The withering disdain he can spit out

Like bitter, ugly streams of chew.

I start an unappealing reminisce

About the days my mother

Did the same to me.

An old Dr. Suess rhyme floats into consciousness-

“I do not like this one so well. All he does is yell, yell, yell…”

It’s not at all funny, but I laugh, anyway.

Maybe it’s how ironically perfect it fits.

Ah, me!

Anger is such a brutish thing 

In the voices of ones

Who are supposed to love you

For who you are.

Grips my soul to its very core

And rips out all the joy.

And all that’s left behind is this massive wall

Of pain.

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