it is so rare but i tend to feel i always have everything to lay my anger with. i usually can be found with the things they say are safe and comforting. believing with the words that i’ve thought could touch hearts, it’s so long that i’ve been wanting to turn myself into a body free with rage, destruction, and anything that could burn anything it touches. i fear the idea of something dark and too much that i think could have its reign over me; i fear violence as much as i fear myself turning into something i’m not. perhaps, i believe that you can’t find home wherever angry resides. but there’ll be those times that it will find you just like every unexpected storms do, and just like every touch of the hurt living even with the times they shouldn’t be alive. the anger—the one i often forget existing—it rarely comes, so rarely, but when it does, even if it will be a stranger in disguised, it will also feel homely and familiar.
i tend to refuse that i have it in me. that in everything i would lay myself into, it is always possible that even being dreamy could fuel it inside for even if i often forget, it’s still human. that even if i often believe everything just means i’m hurting and loving the aches, i can still feel the raging of things i can’t control. perhaps, i’m still believing that there’s more hurt than the feeling of anger inside me, but i know i couldn’t forget how i hate the things i failed to be and how i’m loving the way i hate it. with it, i forget the ugly things that i know i always have in me. with it, i feel like my poems deserve to be anywhere for i won’t even mind the forgotten words etched in them. but i’m angry with my poems that failed to tell a story. i’m angry with the eyes just wanting to look me in calmness and a land before hell. i’m angry with the things i see but couldn’t hold. and i’m angry with everything that i chose to break and unlearn. and somehow, it feels so good and i’m seen and secured. with the moments i’m in anger, making me believe i had it from the start, it feels so calm for i feel like to scream is the only way out. but not until it leaves me. for by then, it will hurt—so much—to think that it was and felt like home and a safe place. it will hurt for there is where the ruining happen—
there is where i often unlove myself.
— 02:16 l. sin, times i am a stranger
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from @Archillect on Twitter
