Boys with sisters are said to be better.
He was dim at best, yet, fooling us all.
With the grips of winter, I grew bitter.
By the end of day, my hand would sure fall.
Touch to love, to feel, with malice? I reel.
She came to me with news that bit my soul.
With my growing age, I lost my even keel.
She said, take no act but I lacked control.
In the crowded hall, I search for his face.
Languorous eyes fail, where mine had been keen.
His comfort and smiles resolved my distaste.
My hand harkened his face, a blood spat scene.
All the anger, all the rage felt in youth,
Yet the excited hand spoke an untruth.