Anger

More red than that on her dress,

The night that we met.

No longer just the colour dressed upon her lips,

And the stain those lips left embedded on my skin.

As I look at the hand which shelves the diamond she wears,

So proudly by her side, as we walked hand in hand,

I raise my hand in a burst of frustration,

As I press my own sweet extremity to my face.

And on it I see her dress,

Flowing from my nose rather than her hips;

“Why did you have to make me so angry?”, she moaned.