Four Days

Stay up late, contemplate. It's been four days and still I ache. Check my phone, check my mail, check my mind and then exhale. No happiness. Guilt, blame, and bitter pain. It hurts. It's not the same.

Anger

Thrash, smash, break, violate. I hate, I hate, I don't hesitate to throw out, throw away, total dismay. My skin boils the more I sit, I want to hit, kick, grab and stab. I'm pissed off. I'm angry. This is me, not passive, not quiet, not nice, not pleasant. I'm wrong, I'm out of place, I'm not giving a fuck. I'm tired of caring and people starring at the man with good morals. Punched the wall until my knuckles bled, scream until my hearing's dead. Take the bat to the tree and start a destruction spree. Kill the humane, choke the righteous, drown the witty, but most of all show no pity. Weak never worked, I'm always hurt and now I'm angry.

Cry

My nose starts to tingle. I feel my eyes swelling hot and cheeks warm. My emotions crash onto my heavy face, broken. The water pours from my eyes like a salty faucet and yet my lids are clenched shut, mouth open, teeth exposed. Saliva strings like a web as I pant my gallon drum lungs. My body exhausts itself onto the floor as if I had tripped into a dark hole. My mind is blinded by wet blur. I seem to repeat the same phrases over and over, each time growing more passionately, raspy, and rough.

Time is only understood with a pulsing headache and worn expression. The arms and legs lay limp with short convulsions from gasping air. Yawn.

Anguish freezes involuntarily.

I exhale feeling expended, my will for contentment going out with my breath. My sleeve is lined with dark streaks where I wiped my nose like I did as a child. Skin shades of flesh and red pattern the outside of my eyes from tightly held mien. 

Once ashamed, now exposed to all the pain that was enclosed.

These Two Are Not The Same

Not the same as when I first was introduced. Not the same as when I first loved, cared, and belonged.

I am an oddly placed plastic mannequin in the room of two lonely statues. They are grey and brittle. What is to be done of a statue, so familiar, when cracked and shaken? Plastic is only tolerant to so much weight. 

I must leave now but timid to leave such a quiet ruin. Not for its beauty, but for its pain I must let it rest and let time heal the wounds.