#i am so sorry this is legitimately just shameless venting 😭

[aspoonfulofmoss]

cw self harm, implied ed

april 14 2024

i am scarcely angry. i would call that a certain and humiliating, desperate kind of cowardice, though im sure someone out there calls it a virtue. but tonight, tonight i am very angry.

i am angry with my parents, for their boisterous bragging about how well they know their son (daughter? child? not that it matters) while the son lay rotting from the inside like an oozing fruit, wrinkled and tender, packed tightly with maggots.

i am angry with my sister for her constant admonishing of me for things i haven't done, and indeed for things i have. i am angry that she may very well have to know she outlived me, someday.

i am angry with j and d for possessing their comical apathy towards my deteriorating state. i am angry that they do not care enough to force me to become well again. if they begged me to stop i would. perhaps even if they asked offhandedly. perhaps if my hand was squeezed or the pressure of a fingertip drawing an arc gently over the curve of my inner wrist, the layered lines there. but that is not the truth. they will not. so i will not stop.

i am angry that nobody wants to help me. i am angry that nobody cares, for somehow i want them to despite hoping for the opposite. what a piece of work is man.

most of all i have always been angry with me, mostly for things i am not rather than for things that i am. i just barely know what i am well enough to loathe myself. i am angry that i am nobody else. i am angry that when i realize that jolting, wild fact, that of my own existence and its irrevocability, i turn it upon myself and make myself more wretched. i am angry that my fingers meet the back of my palate when i am filled with detestation for my deplorable frame, and the gluttonous flesh hanging superfluously off of it. i am angry with here and there, the hip, the ankle, the jaw, anyplace (and it is everyplace) that is too soft, not sharp enough, the consequence of a weekend cake or a lunch, for once. i am angry and i would be happy to take the hammer to the skin and shatter the bones beneath into twinkling dustpiles, like glass.

upon myself i feel a sort of anger, but the more i repeat it the less certain i am that it is correct. the teeth, the snarl, the primitivity of the word wrath suits it far better. what i feel for myself is something sour, dank, sharp, coiling; something that bites down and drinks deeply. my wrath is something neolithic. perhaps biologically satiating. it will never be enough. i will always want more, and so long as everything keeps on not caring, it will be mine.

but now im very exhausted and i don't much feel angry anymore. maybe that's all it ever was.