It takes everything I have
to write my thoughts
and leave them as they are.
The truth is they're messy,
and my feelings are messier.

The glass jar I drink from
would make for some kind of release
if I threw it at the wall
with the energy I use to write.
And I think about doing so frequently.

Violence against the walls in my house
has become a more pervasive fantasy than ***.
It's been a few weeks since I destroyed my dresser.
I'm not sure the writing provides the same outlet.