She wore frustration
as I wear clothes—
constantly changing,
her emotions shifting
like seasons in a storm.
She knew not
the root of her discomfort,
first came anger,
then rage—
a single tear
propelled from her eye
like a bullet from a gun.
To call her emotional
was an understatement;
these feelings
became a flood,
overwhelming,
uncontainable.
All I wanted was to help,
but the more I spoke,
the more she soured—
my words,
my tone,
even a stranger's glance
could set her off.
None of these emotions
could she quiet
within herself.
I was at a loss for words.
"Do you think I am a bitch?"
she questioned,
her voice trembling.
"Yes..."
I answered,
unaware of the consequences
truth might bring.
I tried to explain—
"It isn't a bad thing,
being a bitch.
It's just...
you're always angry.
These emotions—
they're wild.
I think you need help.
I want to help you..."
But she cut me off,
"That's not what I'm focused on,"
she snapped.
So I sat in silence—
what else could I say?
You can lead a horse to water,
but you cannot make it drink.
My fountain of knowledge overflows,
yet I cannot help
someone
who does not wish to be helped.
I'm sorry, my love.
Now,
I'll take my leave of absence.
