Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Anger That Won't Disappear
It takes every fibre of your being not to pummel them and bash them and bruise them and kill them with anything you can find. Hands itch to hit, hands itch to hurt, but you must restrain them. Can't let them know that you hate them with everything you have. Turn the music up louder. And louder. AND LOUDER. Is it working yet?
Dig nails into your scalp. They bite and it hurts, and it draws blood. But that's all you can do. It's all you can ever do. Otherwise you'd end up in prison for murder. At least this way it'd look like suicide and they'd never know the truth. You want to scream, you want to hit something hard, but you can't because they'll hear. They're always fucking listening. There's no escape, and you can't take it anymore. So you write it out, hoping that it will take away some of the itch. You find that it doesn't work at all, that it only makes it worse. They disgust you, and you hate them with a passion; one of the only passions you've ever learnt to summon. You weren't meant for love, only hate. It's all they bred you for.
You make a fist and go to strike your desk. With your hands held above your head, the muscles in your arms stiffen as you fight against yourself. In the end you win out, but you cry in frustration. Tears blur the words that you write to get it all out. Why the fuck should you keep it back? Why?
You think, and realise. It's because you can't tell them anything. They never listen. They never care. They'd laugh and brush it off, or else think you've gone mad, succumbed to the Devil. They sent you to him themselves, fucking hypocrites.
You can see it now, all those people's reasons. Why they run the knife against their skin, digging it deeper until it brings blood to the surface. Until it's deep enough to scar. Because there is no other way; you hurt yourself because you can't express the pain in any other way. This. This is the low that you've brought us to. Are you fucking proud now?