Rage Is A Girl's Best Friend

 

"what did you post about, darlin?" he asks me.

he should know not to ask.

"stuff."

better to ask me what i'm not posting about because
that's where all these words are coming from, you know.
there's something on my mind, filling me up, screaming
inside of me and i'm trying not to let the words out that
will define that "something."

i talk about the weather or about glenn or computers
or something equally inane, trying to divert the words
along a safer path.

but it's not working, is it? because i post and post and
when i push send, i do not have that release of pent up
breath, that feeling of blessed emptiness. there are
just more words and i have to force myself away from
the computer for a while until the need is less acute.

and if i could, i would write night and day of this thing
inside me. don't think i haven't tried. one of my oldest
places to write on the net all of a sudden has moderators.
they sent back three of my posts, saying they were inappropriate.

well, yes. but what's your point? it's my PLACE to be
inappropriate. it's how i deal with shit. it keeps me off the
edge and back toward the "sane" end of the
curve.

even this is not helping. it builds. it has me shaking my
head a hundred times a day to jar loose the thoughts
that keep repeating.

this is a day for road rage and snarling at the news out
loud and jerky comments to friends and loved ones.
it's a day to ignore my mother, not think of my father,
not think, not think at all.

i'm going to clean my closets now

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