you cannot seem to grasp that no amount of tap dancing can repair these holes you have hammered into everyone you love

bubbling up like a thick stream of gravel
for the first time,
anger.
my eyes slithering grotesquely into narrowed slits,
for the first time,
anger.
snapping and whimpering in turn, like a wounded animal.
sore.
anger,
a savage fish-hook grabbing blindly at me,
catching in places and ripping out chunks.
you, my foundation,
my concrete, my sidewalk,
point your nose to the clouds like a bayonet with an acid harumph.

sitting cross-legged in that waxy-faced battle stance,
shoulders shallow,
watching with great slivered cat-eyes,
you are like Henry VIII. like Saladin.

i raise round eyes, mottled, dark.
an enemy that loves you might be the most formidable.
my sheep-eyes are soft
(i am a rather formidable enemy.)

your lips curve so sharply
in some sort of satisfaction
that i am made of glass.

your fingers spread wide on the pounce.
with an irrevocable crack,
the inevitable shatter.
when you break me it stabs right back into you.

sore thumbs.
what else have we been taught?

you suckle your fingers, ripe with pieces of
me.
you're blinded by blood that you've smeared on some altar
to something you've deadened
but felt should be strong.

i am whispering something vital
through claw-cracked lips.

listen,
or

you'll be facing an army with nothing to fight with,
and you'll always have broken glass in your thumb.