there is nothing of you left

whom i loved.
i see you now,
wedged deep between Jekyll and Hyde
your psychosis waiting to bite over cups of coffee or phone lines.
i cannot tell when you are coming,
like a cold front you appear without warning.
there is no way to coax you out of this,
to make you kind without provoking attack.
out of nowhere bricks are hurled,
the way the earth throws a tantrum
with no remorse or apology, not even a fake one.
there is a difference between suffering consequences
and acknowledging a wrong.