I don’t see red when I’m angry. I feel simmering rage right down to my bones, hands aching, arms rigid with unbridled hatred that no matter my past mistakes, in this moment I am pissed as all hell. I think before I act because I know one wrong move and you’ll have the upper hand, the first word to send all curses flying from the atmosphere only to be flattened down by a paltry excuse of an insult. Just a word and it all comes tumbling down.

I hate being wrong, but most of all I hate it when you believe you’re right. Hate is a strong word but a word nonetheless. It defines your kind, brands you as evil despite your false reasonings as you clamp down on the only thing you have to grip in front of you. Lies. Endless, unforgiving lies that twist truth into rumour, into the fiction I cling to, the only thing that’s kept sacred now scorned into a victimless act.

Til it changes once more. The persecutor. The one who caused it all because I did what I thought was best for me. Not you. No rules dictated, no promise made, just a few steps between here and hell as you chase down the truth. Your truth. That you control and blame and command. Constantly. Reminding me of the one mistake I never made. Reminding me of times that were not how I perceived them to be.

I tolerated you, once upon a time. I cared what you thought until you became many. Many became a war. A war I could not win despite trying to evolve with each unending cycle. I hate being angry, especially when its someone as derivative as you. Nothing matters. Nothing matters more to me than the past you put me through, silent and alone as I hope you are now. But you aren’t.

You exist and converse as freely as ever, unaware of the bird with the broken wing, enduring as the days go by. I am angry, at myself for caring too much, at you for staying silent, at my own self reliance on others which is not a privilege but always a curse. Seven times I have been cast aside. Seven times too many. One remains on tender hooks, at arms length through no fault of their own but because I cannot bear to break and remend once again. Not again. Never again.

There’s nothing left of a shell once it’s shattered. Forged through fire many a time leaves nought but ash in its wake. Ash which chokes and lingers on relentlessly stubborn because nothing is worth death. Nothing is worth the satisfaction of your enemies winning through vulgar means of ruin and sacrifice to those they have poisoned. Nothing is worse than breaking past your breaking point, sacred, afraid and alone yet still mad at the world for the game they play, the dice they roll. The lives they ruin. The lives they continue to taunt and shape til their heart's content.

No one was hurt. No bones broken. No one who mattered at least. Kids will be kids until they are not. Until that rage still remains. I hate you, not for who you are but for what you’ve done, what you’ve failed to do and what thoughtless actions caused you to drag me down into my own void of self hatred.

You are not wholly to blame. But you sure as hell started it.