ImageI’m not sure which is worse.  Your disdain or my disbelief.  Somewhere in-between there is a truth that coils like a serpent.  The smell of cigarettes and ammonia.  The bare linoleum floor.  Sterile blue light and just outside crows huddle in the rain.  You ask me, sneering, what I thought I was doing.  And I can’t speak from the rage of it all.  My fists clenched to whiteness.  I must contain this.  The taste of blood in my mouth.  The hum and whine of corridor neon lights.  I cannot look at you.  Cannot.  Instead I let the metallic blood coat my tongue.  Breathe shallow, dark breaths.  And wonder how the fuck I got here.



7 thoughts on “Afterwards

  1. kono says:

    Whatever you’re doing keep doing it…i like it.

  2. daisyfae says:

    contained rage still causes destruction. sometimes better to let it out than keep it in… unless you are angry at me, of course…

  3. Sometimes it is better to be inarticulate with rage than to spew out all that you are thinking and feeling. Then later you can chop onions ferociously, or split wood, or pull weeds, or heave breakable dishes at a wall to let the anger out. Because in my experience, saying what you are thinking to a person who has hurt you so deeply is quite often just as useful as speaking to a brick wall. It doesn’t hurt the wall and it accomplishes nothing.

    Sorry I haven’t been around your blog lately. sounds like you need some loving female support…

    • Dolce says:

      Hells yeah. Many a truth spoke in jest is one thing. Many an idiotic VENT of meaningless invective is spoke in rage. Not so good.

      • Dolce says:

        PS this was from a while ago. I’m actually in a really good space at the moment. Just some of the unresolved stuff from months ago surfacing in writing. But thank you. You’re awesome. x

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