Bottled Fury

A throat constricting, fist clenching, blood boiling fury.
Suppressed rage, condensing into a solid mass of anger, restricting breath.
If only, if only she could open her mouth, unleash the frustration in a single, saturated scream.
Instead, it remains bottled up.
Growing, slowly at first, the faster.
Increasingly easily proved. It manifests everywhere.
and she becomes the very embodiment of resentment.

The Struggle

I watch as she, dearest friend, confidante, walks into darkness. I am useless.

Her feet are bloody, shredded by the bed of thorns beneath her. 

And yet, she continues forward. 

Each move pierces more of her skin, cuts deeper into vulnerable wounds. 

Her face is contorted in agony; her face streaked with incessant tears. Fresh salty streams emerge before old ones complete their fall. 

And yet, she continues forward.

In desperation, I shout, scream, call, cry. Why? Come back. Stop. My voice is unavailingly hoarse, for she pays no heed. 

Sometimes, she pauses for a fraction of a second, as if she heard something.

But she is deaf to words. The physical affliction is easier. Immediate stabs pain pushes to the foreground, dulling all else. It allows shadows to remain buried. 

Worry and an inability to understand transforms into anger. Daggers are thrown, spears hurled in frustration. Then guilt. As if more pain will help.

Urgency increases. Each step ahead requires another step to behind.

Choose joy.