Eating your meat well done is like being a middle-aged man, being asked for a fuck by the most voluptuous 20-year old you can imagine and then waiting 40 years before actually doing it.
The very (non-)pretentious exploration of mental pains.
...but first some definitions:
- RAGE - violent anger, often so strong that it cannot be contained, becoming the instigator of violence.
- WRATH - extreme anger, so strong and so intense that it is only attributed to deities and parents.
- FURY - violent directed anger, providing an outlet for overwhelming feelings.
My veins are on fire, blood have been replaced by overheated gasoline, coursing through me is an explosion begging to express itself. My hands are fisted, clenched tightly shut, fingernails digging into my flesh. My jaw is shut, muscles and tendons grinding teeth against teeth, the taste of iron is on my tongue from holding back the flood of rage. You have awaken a wrath that begs to break every bone in your frame, collapsing it into a heap of broken flesh. I want to pound your face until it is pulp and nothing more. I cannot bear to hold back the rage beckoning me, cajoling me into releasing the fury of a seriously pissed off man.
Let me throw you off the walkway, see your head cave in on the asphalt below, let me pull every joint out of its place, hearing the sweet pop that comes before every cry out of your throat. Let me crush every bone of your ridiculous frame into pulp and dust, put out your eyes with my fingers, rip your living skin off your fucking face and tear out your teeth with a pair of pliers.
She worries so, her head always trying to figure me out. Always on alert for what excites and pulls at my sense of adventure, searching for the thing that makes me tick.
She doesn't understand that nothing makes me tick, not anymore. Life have lost its allure, its bright colors and strong aromas. Life is dull, like the tip of a hot dog. Life is gray and gloomy, like the former union of the USSR and only the smell of rotting fruit kernels permeate the air. I see the lackluster clearly, the thin varnish that barely covers the unsteady IKEA-likeness we call life. I see through the thrills and pleasures of social interaction, seeing young passion wither and fade to bitter ash and resentment, I see exuberant friendship fall into placation and you'll-never-think-the-cow-will-leave-the-barn attitude, the flimsiness of attention and the sharing of pointless regurgitations of other peoples social status.
The only thing remaining to me are obligations, the thing we are supposed to do to get by. Washing clothes, washing the dishes, vacuuming the floor, dusting the furniture, the tedious things we have to do have become my escape. They waste my time, they pull my mind out of the dark hole of living. They are my steady companion towards the end of this life, my only friend as I walk with an agonizing slow pace towards death.
She scowls and clicks her tongue, her lovely face takes a bitter turn and her eyes tells me she's disappointed. Her face recovers quickly, but her whole body screams disgust and disapproval. Only the verbal is in her control, all her other languages are screaming at the top of their lungs.
Be happy she says, stay true to yourself.
I am and I will, even when she scowls and her conversation is limited to jeer and scorn. Because no-one has ever made me happy, only staying true to myself even come close to a semblance of happiness.
Open palm slap to the face, fists to the skull, angry eyes staring at me. I cover before those eyes, I feel weak and deserving of everything I have coming. It's my fault, really it is, it's not just not something I'm saying. I should carry the blame, shoulder the burden. I'm sure it's my fault.
I wish I could cry, cry this hateful angry person out of me, release him and let go of the hurt and the anger. I wish I didn't have to hurt you anymore, that I didn't have to bruise and punish you every day, but here we are, I'm still mad and you're still weak and pathetic.
He looks at me with dead cold eyes, the fire has gone out now, only disgust remain. I look back with tears in my eyes, they signal hurt and fear. Nothing and everything joins us. A mirror stands between us and in it we share the bruises, the hurt, everything but the eyes.
Home is where I am a minority, a place where I do not fit, where I am the round peg to their square hole. They openly stare with manga eyes, showering me with abashment for the way I dress, the way I talk and act. I wish for stares, but different ones. My mind wants to command them to worship me, but they see only an ugly duckling.
I hide behind the perpetual scowl, with eyes dead and shark teeth ready to strike at a moments notice. I am dead, indifferent to their scorn and ridicule, I am the resting bitch face extraordinaire.
My partner calls me attractive, but the mirror shows varnish barely covering a rotting carcass. Like decaying wood, spewing black fetid tar, with splashes of paint dabbed all over it. I have accepted that what she sees is not what I see, but I still want to scream at her to find someone better. Stop wasting your time on me, you are not that young anymore, go find yourself someone that's not ugly, not damaged. Be free, be happy, but it won't help, she would stay anyway.
She tells me I have admirers, women who find me attractive the same way she does, people that cannot see beyond the polished surface and I feel embarrassed on their behalf. So blinded by their passion that it hides the smell of my putrid wounds, so emboldened by their desire that they dare speak their desire out loud to her.
I am consumed by guilt, for every word out of my mouth, she talks back, beating me down with words. At every step, she walks right there beside me with those accusatory eyes, staring me down, making my head bow down. For every action, her response is the stick, curving my back, killing my posture. With every breath, she's there telling me I don't deserve another.
How did I become so consumed with guilt and shame? I did not murder or commit any crimes, well at least not any crimes hurting other people. I'm not really a bad person when I think of it, but still I'm overwhelmed and consumed by it.
It's the eyes, they always give me the cue. Passion washes out of their eyes and disappointment replaces it, hot turns to cold and smile turns to scowl. I put on a brave face, but in the corner of my eye she shakes her head and I know I no longer deserve to breathe.