I gave you Excedrin instead

For Peter.

You are so
angry.
You are so angry that your fist
collides against your skull like a wall
for lack of a better vent for your frustration,
and when you see the bruise on your reflection you
blanch
the way she did when you told her
you didn't love her, and you
didn't think she loved you either.
You didn't think she could.

You butt the edge of your discontent
on every eccentric soul you come across,
wondering
why
they don't make sense to you,
but never bothering to wonder
if you make any sense to them.
I can't help but smile—
sometimes you're so horrible you make me laugh—
but sometimes
you are so deep I can almost feel myself
sinking.
So why don't you make up your mind?

You tell me you drink to escape the things making you think
too hard,
like how your mother is still moved out and your father
prides himself walking around the house without a shirt.
He's lost ten pounds since your mother left and
since she left
you're the only one around to see it.

Sometimes I watch your expression from across the room
and have to keep myself from
laughing.
I see the echo of my own thoughts flicker across your eyes.
But there are other times when I can only
wonder
what goes on
as your skull begins to crack
under pressure.

I watch your thoughts spatter from the fault-lines,
looking for someone to calm them down
or at least give them the go-ahead for murder.
I wipe your anger out from under my eyes
to watch you walk away.
The only thing I couldn't bring myself to say was,
Please.
Stay.