The Condition of AngerMature

It starts off like a drip drip dropping of tepid water on the back of a hand. Slow and focused like a metronome. It comes with purpose and remains steady, tuning your every thought to the same frequency. An acidic bubbling arises somewhere deep in the gut and pushes it's way up to the back of your tongue. A raw scraped sensation running the length of your esophagus. Vision staggers and stops like viewing the world through a series of rapid shutter photographs. A strobe lit mentality. Attempting to make sense of the scene in a few short bursts of sporadic light. Your hunger dissipates and you feed off of the heat generated from your rapidly beating heart. You feel your face hot with excess circulated blood and your breaths come in waves of varying difficulty. The mood is set. You gesture wildly as your eyes bore deep into the back of the perpetrators skull. This provoker, this scene setter, this reason for everything evil in the world. You can see no other side to them and you hate how you could have ever tricked yourself into believing this person has, or ever will be, capable of any good in this lifetime. The anger takes over and you are dragged exceedingly farther down into this pit of ash and sick and hurt. You feel your blood. You feel your skin. You feel the hot ember radiating deep within you. And in a torturous fashion you feel alive with hate. But at least you are feeling something. 

The End

2 comments about this work Feed