Musings on Life from a Dead Girl

All This Rage

I have so much anger inside.

It burns like a fire in my gut.

I watch my mother sit inches away.

We sit in silence because none of my attempts at a conversation stick.

When I get up, she is laughing with my sister and father before I can close my bedroom door.

I listen as he yells, I focus on the way his eyebrows knit together.

I listen as he breaks my heart.

I say not one word.

She calls me ugly, the little girl that always wanted to be like me.

She calls me stupid.

Says this is why no one loves me.

My boss rambles on in nonsense about a world he doesn't understand.

He tells me to fix it.

So, I do.

They complain about their boyfriends and husbands.

Go on and on about how it's a mother's job to listen to their children and make them feel heard.

A car cuts me off.

Jealousy.

Envy.

Hate.

All of that hurt tumbles around inside of me and it turns into rage.

White hot rage.

I want so badly to let it out on everyone who has wronged me.

The people I call family, my doctors and coworkers.

The people that laugh at me.

The people that doubt me.

The people hurt me over and over and over again.

I want them to feel my fire and burn.

Burn, burn, burn.

All they ever get are tears.

Water when I want fire.

depression instead of rage.

I could never hurt anyone the way they've hurt me.

So instead, I turn the rage out, loosing it on myself.

I am the problem.

I am too slow.

I am ugly.

I am to blame.

I am at fault.

I deserve the hurt.

I deserve to burn.