This time, just rambles

I feel like fire is burning up my insides
like something is breathing and breeding
in my spleen.

Each word he says aloud smells like
sulfur dyed in mercury
and lit aflame.

My fists curl like my top lip when he
takes that tone of condescending
- I fucked up?

But see, I don’t fuck up, but yes
I do fuck up, and yes, I may
be at fault.

But fatherly advices are like dial tones
flat and vacuous – without meaning
without fullness.

And I still just want punches and screams.