Soul Boxes

You anger me
With those everyman
Phrases of "love" and
"Longing". The bile
Billows in my throat
After hearing your
Saccharine-soaked
Scrawls about all
Those menfolk who've wronged
You and loves lost in
Your infinite languish.
Grow some creativity.
Don't fake your reality,
Don't doll it up for the
Pageant, haul the truth
Out there
Raw, and bruised,
Her knees, skinned
And bleeding for even
The softest of words.
I know I cannot change
Your little gilded soul boxes,
But I can see what's inside them,
And all that I've found is
Shit.