my rage: just that
Writeen by a very angry little girl, who is now a young woman (still angry, but less catastrophic about it)
I wish my anger had weight,
that it could shred the world apart,
into a million, tiny, unsalvageable pieces.
I wish my silent, muffled scream
could knock mountains off their plates,
leave cities in utter carnage,
everything reduced to ashes.
I wish my rage could do something,
anything.
I wish it could kick the earth off its orbit,
send it crashing into a flaming meteor,
so that every last soul felt endless agony,
before they felt nothing at all.
Get isa’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I wish it could beat people into a bloody,
writhing, pulp.
I wish it could make them feel.
Make them hurt.
Until they forget what good ever was.
I wish my rage had the world at my mercy.
But no. My rage does nothing.
My rage: just that.
Oh how this makes me wildly angry.
Do you see the masochism yet?
Instead, I lie thrashing.
Beating at ghosts of the living,
crying and crying
to whatever is left of my sanity.
Most of all, I wish my anger would go away,
leave me behind.
Unravel itself from me
until I forget
I was ever bound by its thread at all.
That my fibers and sinew were woven with it.
I wonder how little of me
there would be left.
I wonder if I would be able to stand upright,
to form a thought.
But it’s just so pleasantly easy to hate.
To be angry.
To have rage caged inside you.
So much easier than anything else in the world,
anything else I’ve ever known.
And it feels really good.
Like I can summon hellfire from my fingertips.
I don’t want to stop being angry.
What does it matter, anyway?
My anger is weightless.
