When you turn away

after dropping the remains

of my crumpled spirit at my feet

I hate you

with fierce intensity

and I channel that hate

with middle fingers

at your back.

When your heart attacks you

drops you to your knees

and you’re prone in a bleak

hospital room for a week

I laugh inside

able only to picture

my hatred pointing

straight at your back.

But you don’t die

and I wonder.

If I had moved my fingers

a little higher

pointed at your head

instead of your heart

would my rage have

digested you faster?

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