WRATH is driving away late at night, fists clenched, alcohol racing through your veins like a grand prix, thoughts raging like thunder booming outside, rain washing away the trail of fire left in your wake, flashes of lightening intermingling with hazy, muted colors of the stoplights, and you’re in your car, going faster than time on fast forward, blurring past looming trees and buildings until the landscape is nothing more than an old painting smearing from your tears and you’re driving, foot on the accelerator, pushing 60, 70, 80, until the numbers start to fade and you try to focus on the road because you have to or not you’ll be back to thinking again -even with all that whiskey burning your throat into sandpaper and all that *** blazing away the garden of Eden in your mind- and you’ll still be back to thinking, thinking about all the pain living inside your wiry skeleton and you can’t get away from it, no matter how far you drive or how fast you go or how much you drink, and you’ll slam your fists on the wheel with frustration and force 100, 110, 120, watching the rain plummet onto your windshield and you’ll cry and sob and rage -oh utter agony- and you’ll be so angry, so tortured, so enraged with yourself and the world and the awful, crooked pain that you won’t even care that you’ve spun out of control and slammed head first into a glass waterfall of ignorance and oblivion you’ve craved for because pain can’t overcome the power of wrath when it takes hold and taints your blood on the street.

Tragedy inspires all of us to become something we were never meant to be and sometimes that can either water the flowers in our minds or cut them up into “he loves me, he loves me not” and sometimes that can either sting our throats with whiskey or dump the contents of that broken bottle down the drain and sometimes that can either decide whether or not we pretend we are meant for the world or for what comes after.

You still smell like roses. The aroma filling my thoughts as you talk about the adventures you had and the people you met without me, you still smell like the sunflowers. The brightness blinding me as you gleam and glitter while you wonder of a brilliant future without me. You still look at me like azaleas. The color swarming my senses as you sigh and tilt your head, saying goodbye and leave, taking steps to a new place without me. I wish I could uproot my rotten weeds and follow you wherever you go. Sadly, i’m stuck without you.

Every time you asked me to open up, I’d made an excuse not to show you. because if I did, no one, not even you would understand how it felt to do so. Because if you knew i opened up, pried apart my rib cage and opened the flooded rotting of my heart and all the butterflies and moths that gathered there, hiding within my ****** thorns, would finally be free. But I knew that if I did that, all anyone would do is swat and push them away and you wouldn’t catch them to hold dearly to your heart and that’s saddening to know. No one would realize how much I did for them. So the next time you ask me to open up I will say except the same answer, another excuse to hide and keep my butterflies and moths trapped inside.

Ink jars were the tools she used to write her story. The story other heart ache and the torn pages were the rage and the screams, the sadness and the sobs, the loneliness and the vacancy she felt when she realized how much love had made her a fool.

She is a girl afraid of her own shadow. s=She finds it large and menacing, a threat that will consume her from the outside in. So she stops eating, breathing, living. in hopes that her shadow will go away, but it doesn’t. It grows bigger each day, destroying her humanity. So the girl decides to never eat, never breathe, never live again. In hopes that her shadow will go away, but it doesn’t. To her, the shadow is huge, a monster with sharpened teeth and a sinister voice, whispering dark things that make her fear the evil that lies behind hers the girl follows her rule, the only thing keeping her sane. Never eat, never breathe, never live. All for a hope that her shadow will go away, but it doesn’t. Now she is tired and can’t handle the pain any longer. All her protection, her chains and rope, the shields of bloodied slits, the swords of sharpened bones, are no use. Her skeleton frame falls prey to her dark shadow that had remained the same the entire time; this line, this twig, this stick of a shadow that couldn’t have hurt a fly. She wasn’t afraid of her shadow. No, this girl was afraid of a fear in her mind that wouldn’t go away. In her eyes, she thought the shadow was evil when , in act, it was her own thoughts that protected her. And in the end, fear won. It’s what’s on the inside that counts, after all.

Careful, my dear. Because even though love can be bandages, wrapping away the pain and hiding the wounds, you do not let love fool you into believing that it can heal you.

Because once you pull away, you’ll still be bleeding.