Desiderium
the longing of the moments between
I wonder if all of the words spewed across pages, telling the tales of angered women, have released me from an alienating rage.
My anger has always been quiet, held between wallpapers, swings, and weapons. For if my anger was ever loud, it never would have felt like mine.
I have encompassed a terror within my bones, in true belief, that my body will not shift. Yet, as always, elements move, and my body became that of a woman who fears her lack of anger.
What comes next? What happens when I decide that terror does not live amongst my organs?
Anger was once necessary, or rather, productive.
It grew its own mechanisms, replacements for change.
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It built doors where there were none and taught me
to mistake breaking them for leaving.
What happens when my desire for anger leaves but it doesn't get replaced?
What if I was angry but not really, not the right way, not the way that leads me to finding some kind of joy in the desolation of it all.
What if it gets really quiet?
With every moment of silence, I feel my past chip away at my bones.
I thought I’d feel lighter.
Maybe that is the terror.
Maybe becoming is not the arrival of another feeling
but the unbearable moment between them.
