Rage changes you.

Suddenly, you find the steps

you take are heavier.

Your chest balloons,

with the push

of madness + pride,

yet still manages

to remain empty.

 

I have felt the stones

in my belly, the ones

that carry

desperation +

      r   a   w

                 wishes.

I have latched myself

onto men

who have called

me friend.

I have been latched

        onto,

and called him

        pal.

 

This is divine

              retribution.

My life will spin like this:
     cycles of desire

that end in nothingness.

A wayward life;

dead ends, close calls,

and a deep wound

which I keep licking,

never letting it heal.

 

I have felt the bile

yellow my teeth.

I have felt my rage

        e r o d e

the enamel.

I have felt my open

palms    

contract

into fists.

I have

felt my tongue slide back,

ready to choke me.

All efforts to be loved

have enclosed me

behind the dark curtains

of my soaking lashes.

 

All the need for love,

never met,

has brought me

to the   r e a l i t y

that I cannot be l o v e d.

I am full of sores.

My mouth has  b l e d

from the pressure

of my teeth on my lips

This is rage.

 

I have looked men in the eyes,

I have shown them mine.

I have wandered into t h e i r

irises before unbelting

           my connection;

It felt like undressing

in front of a mirror,

only to find my

  r e f l e c t i o n

with a look of disgust

on her face.

     

     No man has camped

in the nearly

     b  l  a  c  k

of my irises.

      No man has found

me beneath the pound

of flesh on my belly.

I have led them there.

I have opened

my mouth in

anticipation

of their b r e a t h,

but all I got were

excuses. “I’m busy that day.
I can’t. I can’t.

        I  c a n ‘ t.

 

No one c a n for me.

I am not worth it.

No one will do the things

they so readily do

for others.

I do not think it’s true

   that I need to understand.

              I am worth no man’s

                         effort.

It’s me.

   So this is rage.

          A puncture,

a gash in my neck.

    No one seems to notice.

Despite my best efforts

          to find his hands in mine,

all I find is my hands,

     around my neck,

        and blood building

                  rivers

      in the lines of my palms.

So this is r a g e.

     Vaguely concealed

              wounds,

      in the shape of my hands

              around my neck.

 

I will growl,

     and I will spit.

Because this is rage.

     Because there

       is nothing else left.

Because this

   is all I can do.

Because

   t h i s

is  a ll

      I   

         h a v e.

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