#skek gets fucking pissed and writes shit out of pure unfiltered fucking rage

[skekthesilly]

simmering rage encased under my flimsy dead-cell exterior. the epitome of serenity, if you only glanced into my visage.

hands busy with scraps of cloth you call clothing. these clothes, folded once, twice - handled with more love and care than a person. ha! if only i were the clothing - piles upon piles of me, waiting patiently to be held, folded, put into my place. left until needed. neglected until called for, then thrown into the wash to be reborn. i want to find a similarity between us two; person and her cloth.

your voice. booming. perpetually angry. yet your yawn was so sweet. so quiet. my fingers cut moons into my palms. i hate your voice. i hate your voice.

seething, unending anger. it traces its fingers across my skull and strangles my throat. it rips out my throat and kisses my cheek. it holds a blade to my ankle and smiles gently. my best friend. my worst enemy. it screams in my ears. i taste phantom blood. i hear the hushed whispers of a phantom court. are judges biased towards children?

pick, flatten, fold. the actions are soothing to me. the pile is not so big when i break it down. i hear a little chime emit from your phone - i wonder if you put that camera downstairs.

poe-mu-doh. karen for "eldest sister". "poe-mu-doh is not the boss," my sister babbles. my fingers still. an echo of my father's words from earlier, roared with anger. she does not understand who really lives under this roof. i pity her. i envy her. we are all glass children.

we are supposed to love you. so why are we so scared of you? i throw a sock into a pile. why do we hate you so much? i pick up a shirt. why do you perpetuate this cycle? don't you want to feel love? or do you just want power? my eyes threaten to glisten. i am in a dark corner, wedged between the couches and wall. they will not see me.

i am silent. i suck it up. a song plays itself in my head - you are a useless child, it warbles to me. i know only one verse. i want to burn this house down. i want to bleed out in the storage room. if i am lucky, my parents will find me too late.

his voice is gentle now. "leave some clothes for your mother," he says. i feel the need to defend her. why? he is only trying to be nice. maybe i thought wrong of this man. maybe i am ungrateful. maybe i am like those children i saw on tv - spoiled. stupid. my chest aches. "she is working. she told me to fold all of them. she won't have time to do them."

"she doesn't have work tomorrow."

i want to stop folding. i want to keep folding. "i'll leave her the socks."

"okay."

my hands tremble. tomorrow is a school day. i don't want to go to school. i don't want to do this again. my future stretches out before me, long and unforgiving. school. school. it is not so bad with my friends. but then i have piano, and work, and work, and work for a thousand more years. i don't want to be a doctor or a musician or whatever my parents try to coax me into being.

my clothes are done. i pick up my laptop - my tabs have been deleted.

"you deleted my tabs. i had school work on them. i'll need to restart completely now."

"oh. your laptop fan was loud - i thought it was a virus."

"no. that was just a game."

"oh. sorry."

he says it so gently. my heart is stone cold. there was no school work lost. i lied to him. it was only a little white lie. his apology is not as satisfying as i had hoped.

bubbling, hissing despair clogs my brain. drips from my fingers.