What’s left are the hands, held out and stiff as they are evaluated for signs of damage.
I run a finger over the birthscars of my palm, then press into it as if I could unmake a life with touch. The lines stay.
Stubborn, untouched, unmoved, rooted someplace deeper, beyond my reach.
What’s lost is control. I cannot find the anger within me.
But note: never a non-existence of rage or sadness or whatever else you are running from.
Instead, it becomes something lost, lurking deep within yourself, a slow, unseen monster.
Know that when it surfaces, there will be disaster.
Or perhaps it will not surface at all.
Perhaps it will not surface at all: the body as a host: holding this anger within itself, cradling it in its arms, nursing it, feeding it, until it becomes something that consumes.
The paradox here is that to consume is a means to nurture and destruct.
Or maybe that is not a paradox. After all, haven’t we starved ourselves, seeking the body, in pure form, all the while destructing it?
What’s left is the skeleton, that is always constant.
Everything you throw into a fire becomes fuel. You are both the victim and the hidden aggressor. There is no defending yourself. You do not want to defend yourself.
The body as an opening, a means for release.
We go in search of blows to feel ourselves hurt, allow a focus for whatever has festered within.
Shift narrative: you are the victim now, barred not just from action, but also from healing. You are entitled to everything you have never had, exempted from any responsibility.
You become something done. It is a beautiful feeling.
What’s left is the forgetting.
Your anger as a forgetfulness. You will never name it, for fear, for longing, for comfort.
When you don’t know why you’re here, you’ve been here forever.
You accept it, because there is no other alternative. There is no other explanation. You do not want one.
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