No name for this...

My room has turned upside down. The bed below me is now the eternity of a black-space sky and I have become a storm hanging beneath its indifference to the earth. Bold lightening flashes of anger spring from my limbs and roll heaving and burning towards her distance. If she could die, let her. Show that errant cunt that I control existence and flesh.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
A thousand jagged bolts tear from my eyes--and then,
as quickly as it began,
it ends.
The cheap plastic fan at the foot of my bed scatters my pain, and the wind tattered silk streamer of violence laps the room once and then settles down, an old man under the blankets.
I'm a desert now, waiting to explode again.
A blank canvas of unforgiveness that refuses to be touched by God's brush.

.