Scribbles on a Napkin

Uncontrollable

The words, when separated, don't mean much. Coming together, they mean more, but still not much.

Coming together, and aimed at you?

Now that means something.

I can feel my cheeks getting red, even though I try my best to keep them from doing so. I can feel myself start to shake and sweat, despite my efforts. I can feel the goosebumps raising on my skin, the shiver down my spine.

But instead of my cheeks going red with a blush, they go red with anger. Instead of shaking from excitement, they shake from the overwhelming hatred growing inside of me. Instead of goosebumps and shivers of elation, I can feel the raging fire juts below my skin.

I have the urge to maim, to kill, to hurt, to destroy, to devastate. It does not matter if you try to calm me down - we past that point the moment you showed me the hate that has been directed at you.

Suddenly, the emotions come forth, and I want to be your hero. I want to be your knight in shining armor, your fallen angel that will jump to your defense. I want to be the boxer, and you, my ringside manager.

And despite me wanting to be your hero with a fluttering cape and a broad smile, the truth is that I'm going to be the hero that lurks in the shadows, the hero that straddles the line between hero and villain. Despite wanting to be your knight in shining armor, I'm going to be the kind of knight that is feared through the kingdom with bloodstains splashed across midnight colored breastplates. I will still be your fallen angel, the kind of angel that has been turned dark with wings that are so destroyed that they will never fly again. I will be your boxer, but I won't fight fair - I will bite and scratch, going for any kind of low blow that I can find an opening to deliver.

I'm going to be your hero, but I promise that it won't look pretty.

But as long as it keeps you from ever being hurt again?

It is but a small price to pay.