The leaden weight of anger

I poke a needle into the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. The sharp prick of pain, so sweet and clear. For several seconds I cannot think at all. I imagine it to be a giant dropper bulb filling with the sludge in my blood. Freeing it up, reducing its viscosity, making it flow quicker. I wonder if it will soak up all my toxic anger. It doesn’t. But I still try.

This anger; it’s just bubbling, bubbling through my bloodstream until I’m practically fizzing, shaking violently, foaming at the mouth. I take a deep breath, I can feel the strain in my chest as it struggles against the resistance that is the hand that is tightly wrapped around my lungs, squeezing. There’s lead ball of anger sitting upon my sternum; a compressed sphere of highly combustible gunpowder just waiting to explode – preventing me from breathing till it does. It rises in temperature; it washes my insides like the hot lick of alcohol burning the lining of one’s stomach. I feel the fibres of the cannonball unmesh; growing more diffused, yet so darkly concentrated at the core.

I carry it around, wherever I go. It feels almost too heavy; like I can barely lift a limb to act or react. A sort of violent lethargy that overcomes me. Seething under the surface but unable to do anything about it. I’m afraid to strike the match. The match that will galvanise me into action but will ignite and burn me from inside out; leave me a charred corpse amongst the blackened ashes of my surroundings.

Nothing grows on poisoned land. Not in a human lifetime anyway.

I wish there was a word I could utter or a spell I could cast that would dispel this feeling. Dissipate my anger. Clear out my insides like the long handled broom of a chimney sweep, and carry away the soot and dust that has accumulated over the years. Years of silently seething. Years of being unable to burst like a supernova.
I wish I could fill my body with cool, cleansing milk and rejuvenate the land that has died over the years. It dies a little more every time I swallow the sun; swallow the fiery, molten, self-sustaining rage.

I wish.

I would punch a hole in the wall and enjoy the release of my anger but I can see my bones splintering upon impact. The wall standing solidly without a scratch. I can hear myself howling with pain. A physical agony to equal and compound my mental pain. But I don’t, I can’t, I can’t explain it to anyone if I did and the hole in the wall remains a hole in my head.

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