Rage

Rage is hornets coming out of your stomach in the form of black bile. It is crying and lamenting fate, when you have put yourself in the cross fire and held the pen for the next chapter. Rage is the waiter that forgets the appetizer, the dog that won't stop barking. Perhaps we've set an alarm and it doesn't go off, yet we still have to wake up and function like adults.

Sisters that hate you, a disgust that forms in spinal fluid. Mental disability, tattoos that criss cross my back, never to be seen again. Birds that disperse and a waiting to feel fine, they ask: how are you? Just fine. I am blowing up inside.

Rage is looking yourself in the eye, unable to blink for the horror that stares you in the face. It is always your fault, has always been your fault. Lying awake at night and counting stars that will be alive longer than your sorry self.

Hating the self: for what? I count the reasons why. Sitting at the dinner table, getting up to leave and then not being invited back. Perhaps this is how it is meant to be. Perhaps I am selfish, living for the moment: hedonistic, never failing to disappoint the masses.

Rage is looking in a pond's reflection and being unable to reflect, shattering waters that didn't exist to please you, but to inform. You have failed, and your legacy will be one of screaming into traffic, never right, just sad and hostile and alone.