Rage - a poem

 

I have stained my canvas with red paint 

and now I have to work around it. My mother 

says that hatred is like a parasite, that it clings 

to you like death itself. There is a tapeworm 

comfortably in my stomach, and I felt it laugh 

when someone told me that I don’t strike them 

as an angry person. Maybe I’m not. Maybe 

all my anger is love. 

Maybe all my anger is loss. Maybe I wish for you 

to look over me, to see the two dimensions

that I am, to pick at my organs. Take that one. 

My liver, my heart. Untie my intestines like knots. 

Hold death in your hands and pose. Smile. 

Kiss your friends and kiss the wrong people and 

then laugh about it over drinks because we’re alive

and maybe that rage is worth having. 

Maybe rage is alive. Rage is sober. Rage is drunk. 

Rage has gotten high for the tenth day in a row 

and cried. Rage kisses me on the mouth in Hank's Bar.

I catch someone staring out of the corner of my eye. 

It is not God, she doesn’t exist on that day. 

I have her in my phone somewhere. I set a reminder

to call. I think I would be angry if I were her. 

I think I am angry.

I think that anger is love. I hear a girl shout for 

someone to care, not anyone in particular, 

not anything particularly at all. Untie the knot of your intestines. 

Drink red paint and let it settle. Rage is alive.

Rage is dead, it is calling God on the phone and she 

doesn’t answer, she says she’s staying out. I spill 

red paint on my canvas and now I don’t know 

if i can work around it anymore.

Falling Apart, PMDD, and trying to enjoy my hobbies again

 When I first started therapy, I was asked what my aim was. I had recently stopped being friends with someone who had said they didn’t like who I had become, and I wanted to become someone I liked once again. Mostly, though, I wanted to enjoy my hobbies again, and become someone worth the air I breathe on this Earth. 

I can’t lie, the last few weeks have been hard. This week, I was assaulted at the club, and I’ve taken the weekend off from uni to go home to my family. Yesterday, my period came, and I’ve always suffered from PMDD, so it’s a relief I wasn’t completely going insane. While my monthly miseries are frustrating, I usually get through them with the power of cigarettes, coffee, good music and my bed. Today, I took a wonderful nap, and plus, my dissertation supervisor had given me this weekend off, so I was fairly guiltless as I drifted off into a dreamless, non-weed-induced (for the first time in a month) sleep. 

I’ve always been a big partier, mainly because I love to dance and meet new people and drink, so what happened was strange to experience, for obvious reasons. I looked really good, too, so it’s hard to reconcile that image of myself with the person who went to the club that day. I won’t go into details on this blog, but I called my mum up crying, asking to come home. I felt like a kid, and I think she knew it was bad because she let me smoke a cigarette on camera and didn’t tell me off. One thing she told me was that I’ll feel better soon, maybe even in a week. It’s true, I’ve been through heartbreak and bad situations before, and I tend to get over things very quickly. But still, it’s weird. 

I miss this blog. I think I’ll go back to writing. I disappeared for a while to work on my dissertation, and I still have that to do, but my life isn’t any better without my writing. I’ve been so sad recently, and it’s been hard to write, or do anything worthy of enjoyment. But I’m trying to claw my way out of the pit I’ve dug myself into. Here we go.