My anger is hungry.

Its stomach growls, its hands reach.

But there is nothing there.

There is nothing to be angry at.

Like birds on a wire,

I watch,

and I wait.

I am kind,

and I forgive.

But you are at my front door.

And no longer am I proud of these virtues,

I do not want them when it comes to you.

Wheat stalks blow in the wind,

a pig is slaughtered next door.

There is a heart-beat coming from the forest.

It is so loud, and so fast.

And terrifying.

It is Autumn, It is mine.

The leaves keep falling.

The paint is red, and peeling. I too, am red, and peeling.

A cow pelt hangs in my kitchen, and I wonder how she felt when she was taken from her calf.

I do not have children.

Is death merciful?

I hope it was for her.

Crows fight over carrion, and the cracks in the asphalt shrink under the burning sun.

You are back,

and pleading.

I want to keep my anger.

You remind me of that pig,

loud and scared.

But I look at you, and your teeth are sharp.

To me you are pathetic.

I shut my front door, and in the silence I forgive you.

You hear. It is not meant for your ears.

It is meant for mine.