Chill Factor

The chill inside my heart grows, When you spit out words of hate, The vitriolic bile that flows freely from your mouth To my being, Disregarding anything around us, My only consolation being a weak attempt at convincing myself That your words indeed come from your mouth And not your heart, Not your soul, Or else I've lost you, And I'm a fool for hanging on. You told me to die last night (among other things) It was a wicked wish, but you meant it As a commandment: The parting of the sea, Mana from heaven, The death of Ricardo Alejandro.

--R. A. Fiallos