Spleen (II)

An upwelling of black ichor floods through my soul,
A resentment that blocks out my thought as a whole.
These people who stylize themselves as my friend
Seem chiefly my emotions to tangle and bend.

An assault on all sides--both without and within--
Fighting strangers is Life, but against friends one can't win.
There, hurt feelings result within one or the other;
One's choices: isolation or the blows of another.

Thrown out and replaced by a make-believe shell,
Against which you don't look and don't act quite so well;
A discussion of care for a friend is rejected,
Said friend onto you his weakness projected;

A friend summons memories of abuse through his word,
Yet later from him no remorse can be heard.
All these things and more in that black ichor float,
That ichor which festers and burns at my throat.