rising anger.
that particular intonation that just tips you over,
weakening admittance to the cold disappointment,
that you were not enough.
so unbearable,
yet complacent in its stature,
the niceties removed,
politeness overthrown,
like ugly pebbles next to an oh-so-perfect skipping stone,
smooth and untouched,
undeniable.

maybe one day,
I will write in absence of emotional pain,
passively forgotten,
as easy as the first pebble,
the first pebble so offhandedly selected
for practice, and nothing but,
to hone in on technique and capability.

for now it is embraced,
opening doors and crystal window panes.
an outlet,
for the things soon to pass,
like the ripples on the water surface,
skipping thoughts and skimming time.