Absence

I just discovered that I’m angry.


The kind of angry that makes your pours tense up and vomit.
The kind of anger that chokes your sternum and pierces you with a thousand corkscrews.
The kind of angry that makes your muscle clad bones vibrate with the force of a jet engine.


This kind of anger will always take me by surprise.


It’s the kind that takes hold of you when you have been drenched in moth shaped lies.
Maybe what happened was that you fell out of your own body into that of a frail decrepit creature.
(maybe you were pushed).
Or perhaps you swam six thousand seas only to find you were travelling in the wrong direction,
And are now clambering up a red beach, sticky with fatigue and gasping for honesty.


This feeling, which has its claws all over my body, offers me new abilities.


I can hold my breath for as long as I want; my desire to fill with oxygen is forgotten and destitute.
My eyes might become dusty now that I no longer feel thåe need to blink.
And my old enemy silence now soothes my back and whispers remedies in my ear.


This anger, which washes my eyes, is a thief and a bully.


Days of a colour and clocks of an hour haunt my senses and calibrate my emotions on a steely palate.
Truth, so long elusive in the mirror, now proves my face is cracked, my lips bent like ancient metal,
And everything that my eyes used to covet is drowning in autumnal dyes, scared of my memory and ignorant of identity.