isn’t it awful how i treated you
and how you left me alone
and isn’t it awful how you didn’t tell me
while i tried to atone
for my sins, and prayed to the lord above
and you journeyed forward, devoid of all love
for me and i looked around to find a land
stripped of everything, and the horizon held
the loss of a gentle hand

short and sharp
is the pain from the hit.
i am 9, my mother is angry.
in the dark, something grows
a few years pass
and a clone of her has grown
i can copy her movements
speak in synchrony
but she never gets hurt when i do

the room is dark but my face is bright,
candle wicks glow with a soft gleaming light,
my mouth forms an o, a moment of wonder,
and darkness comes again, until next year yonder.
yet when next year comes, ill feel the heat stronger,
one more candle is lit, and it makes me ponder,
something ridiculous, like have i grown rounder?
and how long until all snow is downpour?
how long do we have until we begin mourning,
until no one greets the sun ‘good morning”,  
and people turn cruel, though it brings them no prize,
while the rich just get richer, wealth blinding their eyes,
as all those in need begin growing in number,
and all those with greed become dumber and dumber,
people grow confused when they reap what they sow,
unaware we’ve stooped to an all-time low,
as the extinction of our empathy looms near,
and all we know is confusion and fear,
as the world slowly burns down, the sight familiar,
I’ll blow out my candles, humanity disfigured.

i don’t flinch as hard when i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror anymore,
i cant help but smile at good things and like the person i see, her face different.
and though i am not skinnier, i am happier, and my hair is longer, fuller, wavy.
i spend precious time combing my fingers through it, adorning it,
with creams and oils, and nice smelling liquids, making sure i fix my bangs.
i put on my clothes, baggy jeans, worn and slightly torn, with a shirt that’s tried and true,
while i put blush on the apples of my cheeks, smiling so they puff up,
and i stare into my eyes, while i apply concealer underneath them, trying my best to look soft,
curling my lashes so they fan up and outwards, tickling my eyelids when i look up,
sweeping on a light layer of mascara, best suited for my eyelashes, strong and enduring,
while finally, i tint my lips with a gloss that was clear but stained pink eventually,
changed but still pretty, still usuable, still desired, still wanted.
later, i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise, though
sometimes i forget, and occasionally, i break out, pimples erupting,
and for a moment, im 14 again, with a forehead of acne, a hatred for the world,
and for herself, the way she looks, the way her mouth moves, the way her arms flail
awkwardly, all over the place, uncoordinated, while everyone marches on, foot in front of the other.
but i stop, i smile, and i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise,
my hair dripping wet with conditioner, curl mousse and hair oil, detangled with gentle fingers.
i look in the mirror, and for once i don’t flinch. my lips turn up slightly, and i smile.

Sometimes, I do not feel as though I belong.
When I write, my anger bursts out of me, explosions smattered across the blank page.
When others write, their pens leak tears, the sadness soaking the page.

Why am I different?
Why do I enjoy the rage that consumes me and, just as quickly as it came, leaves me with its damage?
Why can't I drown in the heaviness of sorrow that slowly suffocates everyone else?

Sometimes, I feel as though I am the angriest person in the world,
this world overfilled with sadness and melancholy,
while I am pumped full of rage.

Am I different?
Why is the rage so shallow yet it comes from an untouchable place within me?
Why does my sadness seem so deep, yet my despair fades as soon as I put words on a canvas?

I am the angriest person alive,
in a universe of sad, poetic souls
and yet, I can't find anything sad about that,
only anger.