Inadequacy

I sit, stare, and mentally gnaw at the dreams she destroyed with her contempt.
Frantically fishing recollections, and with each grasp, I bring up regrets after regrets:
of terminated journeys, long-ago wicked immoderations, and distasteful fragmented memories.
As murderous thoughts of suicide wane to pity, I began to understand.
Albeit, she shot her thoughts in me like bullets, she needed to maim in order to heal.
She spoke of past attempts, arrogance, and stupidity.
Words that reprimanded, and derided, but gave rational clarity.
Is there life, new opportunity, or success in her words for me?
Can I escape into the desperation of her harsh pleas and snatch the hope with what she beats me?
Who is she—my friend, my soul mate, my confidante, or my enemy?
As I am swathed warmly in fury, her words, her redness, jerks me back to reality.
Is she really berating me for my state of paucity and for not wanting much materially?
Eerily she said, “Be careful what you give to the world.”
Possibly, and sincerely she wants what is best for me.
Only, I cannot see clearly through an anaemic mind, and a failing body.
Perhaps, she should not have wounded me so deeply.