I am a thick, dark, molasses-dense rage. I am a fire and a scream sitting just beneath my collar bone, molten and hot and consuming. I am tipped over into thrashing, screaming, sobbing anger by you, by anyone, by accident, all the time. My song is hatred. My tone is rage. I come home and lay on the ground, allowing myself to convulse with maddening fury. I grasp and see I am alone, my disconnection burns inside my arms. I refuse to reach out and I seethe with perceived misunderstanding, and feel so desperately alone with this twisting, shedding, contorted mass of rage. I am exhausted by anger, I wake up to anger, I sit in my work in anger, I can only stay on the ground so that the fury can be still. Inexpressible, uncontrollable, this rage is my jail keeper. I am in stocks, strangled by it.
I want this to end. Why must I forge through this fire? I know there is no moment where I will emerge, triumphant, a fine steel blade, ready for battle. I am always as I am now, concave, empty but for a dark, twisted mass of barbed wire, whirling around in my center. You must touch me, please, oh god I am in so much need of touch. How does anyone do this, all day, every day, for so many years without some real contact? It hurts incessantly.
What did you want? Is this it? To hurt me? I am so goddamn tired. My dreams are mangled messes, frightening and angry and unheard- forgotten- moments after I wake, but for the feeling of fear and the tight grip of my jaw as I try to gain control. Why would you hurt me? I long to forgive you, to forgive myself, to feel genuine joy for longer than a moment. The summer sun cannot touch me in here, and I need it- have I not earned it? Can I not win this round? But life is, as we know, not fair, not a give and take.
I am exhausted by your shadow, deprived of the sun, no matter how I claw towards it. I know you were sick. Your mind not functioning as I am so lucky that mine does. I can sit and sulk in sobs and gasps of rage and pain, but not desire to leave it all behind, as you did. You felt it was your best choice, but god I wish I could know why, in a way no one ever can, because it does not exist. It scalds me, now I am skin grafts and “afters” and time is demarked by your moment, not mine.
I carry on, setting goals, anticipating a time when I won’t be held hostage by this exhausting, confusing anguish. Weight loss, grad school, pull ups by January. May my insides be cooled, my mind able to trust, my heart soaked in love.