how does one put anger into words. an emotion so overpowering and visceral that it can only be truly expressed through screams and tears and violence. how could you ever put it into words strong enough to convey how much it hurts, and how hot it burns.
i'm so fucking mad at every little aspect of living. i'm so angry at myself for allowing myself to rot away into this shambling corpse of a human being. allowing my mind to become this mausoleum dedicated to nothing. i'm so mad at my frail, disgusting body and its gross little face. pock-marked, wrinkled, uneven. gross fucking teeth. worthless fucking eyes hiding a worn shred of a soul.
i'm so fucking mad at everyone around me. there for me when i don't need them, completely gone when i do. i crawl to their doorstep and summon the strength to knock and they say, 'oops, sorry, we're busy. come back later?' i show them my hurt and they look the other way before rubbing their happiness in my face and thinking nothing of it. laying their goodness on me like a bed of nails and jumping on it with each smile and laugh, forcing the wounds to deepen and deepen and fucking deepen. my best friends are my greatest enemies. my family is my judas. strangers on the other side of the fucking globe treat me better. how pathetic.
i'm so mad at this cadaver that i am. this half-burnt manuscript of my brain. i don't know how to be a human. i can't function. all i want i can't have because of my own deficiency. my mental illness runs me like a puppeteer smashing a marionette against the floor over and over.
i try. i fail. i try. i fail. i try. i fail. i talk. i'm ignored. i talk. i'm unheard. i talk. people laugh. fuck it. fuck it all. i'm so tired. i'm so sick of it. how my heart's still beating is a mystery that's unsolveable. how i'm meant to get to where i want to be is a codex written in a fake language. it's all nothing.
i wasn't meant for this world. i wasn't meant for life. or happiness. or any of it. i should have died a long time ago. but i'm just that unlucky.