Anger Never had a Friend like Me

I know every goose bump by name. 
So close the sweat burns. 
Nothing hurts like our end. 
Sick. Vertigo. 
Push that bird right out of its nest. 
Anger never had a friend like me. 
Willow trees are full of ticks. 
Kids threw rocks at me while I was in my canoe on the retention pond. 
A stone the size of a golf ball hit my forehead. 
I squeaked the way the frog I smashed squeaked. 
I woke up underwater.  
I tried to look up at the surface but the sun was too bright. 
Slow motion punches. 
Surprisingly, you CAN smell your own diarrhea under water. 
Maybe I confused taste with smell. 
The father of the 11 year-old who hit me with the rock, broke his son's hands with a hammer. 
to apologize to me. 
I was happy the boy suffered. 
I was happy his mother kicked his father out of the house the next day. 
The 12 gauge in my grandpa's kitchen forever enticed me. 
It was literally rusty. 
Maybe just really dusty. 
A handgun to eat someday. 
I'll only need the one round. 
Maybe not. 
Learning all those knots in scouts. 
I can't even tie a tie. Let alone a noose. 
That grey sweatshirt covered and crusted with blood as thick as motor oil. Not one drop was mine. 
His pounding heart let out a loud and proud pulse of ten. 
I never need to taste blood again.