I hate how this anger still consumes me – blocks me – breaks
me down. I feel like I have just been
standing still – or falling down – for the past two years. My fists are at the ready, but I strike out
at all the wrong people. I am the one
left with the most bruises and scars; my own two hands are still pummeling me,
ensuring I am wounded and defeated. I
need to shriek and shout this fury out into the open air and allow it to escape
my offended body, where it continues to literally rip apart my insides with
these fucking ulcers and abdominal pain. I can’t though; I stand here nearly
mute, my voice now barely a whisper after all the wasted breath and determined declarations
of the past. It didn’t make a fucking
difference to them then, yet it’s still hurting me now.
I shake, tremble, sob with a rage that remembers like it was
just seconds ago when their lies were accepted as truths and the life I loved,
a life I struggled to build against countless obstacles, was unjustly taken
away from me. More doors closed –
slamming in my face – and no open windows to be found. Fear lingers in the heavy air and it stifles
me – completely immobilizes. I will
never, ever be ready to make nice. I
sure as hell hope I can forgive for my own sake though or this anxiety, this
relentless anger and fear, will crush me like a pile of bricks.
I don’t mean to burn all these bridges. If anything, I’m the one who is out there
collecting lumber late into the night, hammering away to reconstruct boards and
rails that have been ripped out from beneath my feet. I don’t mean to burn all these bridges, but
they know I’m a girl on fire and nonetheless they pour the kerosene all about
under my footing, mocking and affronting me until I stand alone amid bitter,
blackened ashes.
Are you out there somewhere, hiding behind a cloak hemmed of
deceit and vanity, watching me with a smug smile and delighting in all the
damage you have done? Your gratification
could mean my destruction, you arrogant piece of shit. Instead of laying this anger to rest, I personify
my resentment and permit this beastly, colossal creature authority over me – cleaving
at my heart with sharp claws and gnawing at my strength with pointed teeth resting
on the edge of baited, vulgar breath.
This is not what I want, so why have I given this anger so
much power? I don’t want to cry
anymore. I don’t want to hide under bed
covers. I don’t want to be so fragmented
and faulty that I nearly consent to your defamations and thus confess lack of
worth. I don’t want this, but here I am –
frozen, full of fear, faint, frail. I
want control; I want to stand victorious after all is said and done. I need vindication. I need release. I need strength. Instead, I crawl back into bed and weep with trepidation
and trembling.
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