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Monday, June 2


Free writing. Dark free writing. I'm sure I'll organize it and make sense of it someday, when I have a writing assignment due in a few hours and no new inspiration (In other words, when it becomes absolutely necessary to do so).


Red outlines. Glowing from the embers of her past to the distant flames of her future. Lighting the horizon of her memories with an energy that could only come from the hopelessness she felt at this very moment. Right now. Right here. She was powering everything she had tried to give up before this had begun. But it was too late.

She had failed. And she had no one to blame but herself. So she carried it. The weight of this anger that drove her to pieces. Her skin was remorse, her eyes were fury, the nerves that ran from her spine to her toes: desolation. But her tongue was numb. Unable to articulate the burden of her consciousness, it collapsed and gave up, unable to do anything except spit out the food that she had needed to sustain herself. Useless. Her tongue. The food. Useless. Bread. Vegetables. Water. All unnecessary when anger so overwhelming, so self-sufficient had taken a hold of her stomach and filled her to the brim.

She would never be hungry again. In fact, she was full. Overflowing with the wrath that fed itself, forcing her to let it out in little pieces. In little pieces that her tongue could not grasp. Instead of words, there were shattered pieces from the fine china that had found its way out of her hands and against the wall, where it embraced the carefully painted ivory for a second before relieving itself of the strain and dropping to the floor, its fragments lost amongst the thick carpet, soldiers strewn across a plush wool battlefield. Books made suicidal descents from the tips of her fingers to the bottom of the stairs, where they lay splayed at the end of the day, their words now meaningless, their spines cracked.

In these little ways, she spoke. To the world. To a god she had never known. She spoke of her life, of her solitude, of the confinement that drove her insane and the anger that had once killed her, the anger that was the only thing that now kept her breathing.


It doesn't mean a thing.

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