It took a month
after diagnosis,
little over, actually
before the anger
welled up inside
so fierce and hideous
like a black ink
that filled the cracks
between my teeth
and I spit it all back at
the world
with hot tears
and yelling
and accusations

and my dear,
you just sat there on the couch
your head tilted back
and let it wash over you.

Even when I told you
you weren’t trying hard enough
caring enough
Even when I was horrid
and scared and bitter
you sat there,
with your head
back, listening
your eyes half closed
your James Baldwin book
unopened
in your hand
after you had just told
me all about your plan
to read four novels by
every author you pick.

You tell me,
there’s nothing I can say
that’s going to be right.

and I lie and tell you you’re wrong
but the truth is
you are right
because right now
I hate the world
and everything in it