Anger 4

I have learned to swallow your fear;
every day I grow slightly more swollen
with the bitterness of abandoned dreams that you spit out
like saliva, a wet kiss I sip with my cup of coffee.

I have learned not to retain the sodium of our kisses,
to spit out the salt of desire that once slept
in the space between my tongue and my teeth.

I do not sleep anymore.

My belly aches with caffenaited anger the color of your hair -
burnt chestnut, a dye-worthy shade.

I have learned to swallow your fear,
but I have not yet learned how to swallow my words -

let me gag them now, onto this paper,
and hope it leaves a stain on the cuffs of your dignity,
slightly smaller than the stain of your sweat upon my yet-to-be-laundered sheets -
slightly bigger than your hand upon my thigh.