My anger is volatile. I’m raging. I set an ambush on myself as the fury ignites within. It cannot be tamed. It drives with a force, propelling outwardly until it lands on innocent targets. Why this wrath? Why does it not cease? It continues to consume me and ravage me until I surrender to its beckoning. What will remedy the intensity?
I dream of a time when it was not present, and I honestly cannot recall one. It has always been a part of who I am. It’s engraved in me. Etched in my blood. I was marked by trauma then, and I remain marked now. Forever on fire. Spewing. Bursting. Exploding.
There’s no where for it to go. There aren’t enough outlets to release it all effectively. It’s ravishing me, and I can’t break free from its grip. My family tip toes around me, as I dance upon the edge of sanity and surrender. It’s painful for all of us.
Deep down I really do think I want it to be better. But then I’m triggered, and I recall injustice, and I want to attack and break and destroy until I feel empty. Even upon a guilty release, it always returns. Always takes over. Always claims me for its victim. Stealing peace, consolation. Joy. These have felt fleeting, and I can’t seem to make them stay, as they are always overshadowed by the flames bursting within.
I seek a refuge that seems insurmountable, and I bear this cross with my teeth gritted. I’m damaged by the loss of innocence...both my own and the life lost of my dead baby. I want to scream out in a hope that a primal cry will somehow soften the blow and bring soothing balm to a pain that has been ever present. Persisting. Ever festering. Ever infected. Forever wreaking havoc. A pain that enrages me and makes me blow. A pain that has become much too comfortable. Much too familiar.
Anger. My anger. It is only my own. Living in a chaos that I call shelter.