i write about it,
sometimes.
i hold the pen, strong enough to make blobs of ink and blood merge on top of the pages.
i grip the paper, strong enough to rip it to shreds between my fingers.
i clench my fists, strong enough to see ivory bones break through skin.
it's usually not enough.
then i ponder on it,
sometimes.
i sit and contemplate, trying to understand its core.
i search deep down, trying to find its twisting roots.
i hack at them, trying to rid myself of its grasp.
it's usually not enough.
then i talk about it,
only sometimes.
i cry.
i scream.
i beg for forgiveness and for comprehension and a glimpse of something like redemption.
it's usually not enough.
at the end of the day,
i crumble.
i'm rageful, and in rage,
i'm desperate.
i'm desperate, and in despair,
i'm hopeless.
i'm hopeless, and in hopelessness,
i'm miserable.
i'm miserable, and in misery,
i rage again.
how can i hope
to escape this cycle?
how can i hope
to cleanse myself of this?
how can i hope?
how can i hope?
how can i hope, when all i do,
all i was taught to do,
all i was told to do,
was rage?
it's not enough.
