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So it rises up again.
Frustration, rage,
so blinding.
Venom in my veins,
mind’s afire,
knuckle white fists
itching for flesh.

This is not me.

Not sure how
I got here again, but whatever
it is I’ve simply had
enough of it.

Deep breaths
to extend the countdown
till I can defuse, do all
I can do to hold back
from lashing out
in the meantime.

Just don’t push me.
Keep away
till I can kill this.

Experience obscured
by mood,
as the threat of losing
my mind lingers, resting
in its hands
so helplessly.

Prisoner of emotion.
In the grips, remembering only
that which justifies:
a given spin
on personal history.

Past is present.
Present is history.

Identity transforming.
Like watching
from a distance.
Nothing seems
to be worth anything

always sketchy
in the aftermath.
Over time, watching me
bleed away.

Fuck the world.
Fuck me.
Such a gulf betwixt
who I am,
who I want to be.

Just breathe.
Fucking breathe.


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