You start off thinking, I just want to break shit
I need to feel something crumple in my hand
I want to see the rupture in my mind made material
I just want to, I just need to break something
…
So you punch it (or maybe you kick it)
And there’s this drug-like release
The rush of collapsed dry-wall or, occasionally,
The unyielding truth of trees
For half a fucking second, you look at the mess you made
And feel relief, even pride — I did that
But then, oh no — why did I do that
I am a terrible person
I destroyed my own home
I made my loved ones feel unsafe
I broke my hand, again
Again: sore, swelling knuckles
flooded with blood and adrenaline
Skin split at the bone
Forevermore imperfect,
A bodily reminder of the time:
he touched her the way you wanted to be touched
he told you you weren’t entitled to anything
he made you feel powerless
…
Just like your stupid family and your stupid lovers, who
got mad that you wouldn’t go to sleep
got mad that you disobeyed
got mad that their partner was mad
got mad that you wouldn’t shut up about feminism
got mad that they couldn’t control themselves or you
…
Today, half of my hand is blue-green
a half-dead zombie limb, whose body is this?
A ghost of your childhood
A souvenir of generations of failed anger management
a reminder that this whole time what you want to break is yourself
skeptiki 