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Friday, October 31, 2014

anger management

i feel depression come on. like the flu. the grey creeping up the walls. into my feet from the ground. into my heart. pulling it down down down into the concrete.

friends will help it.

where did they all go? they got lost in the black.

i prop up cardboard fake silhouettes and talk to them. talk to me.

she hates me. both of them. old eyes. berating me for my lack of discipline and control. hating me wanting me to die and be gone from their lives. forced to have me live.


i lie in the grass, clouds pass overhead, the day is beautiful. flowers - i can smell them. i can hear my son playing not too far away, poking his new friend with some stick with a giggling joy only kids know how to experience.

i am so tired. i've been awake since 5 AM. my neck hurts.

i've sunk down down down into a rabbit hole that swallowed me. the sky is purple down here, grey clouds going fast fast fast. my son - i hope he's not here, its not a nice place.

she is here.

i can feel her before i see her.

the purple one. holding the fire in her hands. i have dreamt of her often, and here she is.

"i have waited for you a long time bitch"

did she say that or did i?

our voices are overlapping. she is me and i am her.

i am standing holding fire in my hands. i am purple. i am upstairs on the grass, help me God I am standing near my son.

i am going to burn him.

i am going to pour the fire into his brain, into his eyes, into his heart and sole. till he cries. till his soul bursts in pain. till he lives in hell on earth, infected with the rage of fire.



i have clawed my way back underground. i am tearing into my soul. clawing out my eyes. i have blood on my nails. i am fighting for something more precious than my pathetic soul. i am fighting for my son. she will not have him. not like she had me when i was young.

did i really have you little one? she says. or is it me?

my father is standing between her and me. she is pouring the fire into him. he is screaming, but struggling to stay silent so that i, 4 years old, do not wake up sleeping on the mattress on the floor of his room.

his mother before him.

his mothers mother before her.

i have waited for you. they all say.

pour it into me, we all say. spare the child. into me.

my brain bursts. fire pours out of my eyes, my nose, my heart, my soul.

it is done.

she is gone.

there is only me, on the grass, with the fire burning in the grey underneath.

i stand over him, my precious baby, my heart. my soul. my life. i am yelling at him. i am angry. he is looking with eyes that hurt - why is mama yelling? we are both wondering. stop poking him with that stick - my mouth twists and spit leaps out the sparks the words ignite. the fire is in me. i cannot keep it in. it pours out burning everything in front. how many burns can my little boy take before it enters him?

like i did. like those before me.