I grew up angry.
It seemed like the world around me wanted to tear me down,
And I trained myself to fight back.
But a young girl throwing punches wasn't something anyone wanted to see,
So that little girl quickly realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with violence.
So, she started screaming into a pillow, screaming in her head, screaming where no one could hear her.
I let fire pierce my throat, injecting my veins with a desire to fight.
Nothing felt right.
Red, hot anger burned my eyes, burned my throat, burned a hole through the fabric of who I was.
Then, I grew up.
Convinced the anger went away, I moved on.
But it hadn't gone away.
It had simply frozen.
What was once hot had become icy,
Unidentifiable anger at the world, at everything around me.
It sat dormant in my soul and picked apart everything.
It taught me how to hate the sound of voices,
How to wince at the movements of people's hands,
And made me believe that every single unfair thing I was angry about was my fault.
But the cold never lasts, and ice melts to tears.
Icy anger turned to sadness.
Then, my tears would freeze up as they fell,
Because it was easier to hate myself and the world then it was to feel that sadness.
Then, I discovered a way to let it all escape.
I pushed the ice into characters,
The fire into stories,
The sadness into poetry.
Without writing, I am nothing.
I would have nothing but anger without words.
Ice still pulses through my veins, through my head, through my thoughts,
It has a way out through my fingertips.
Thank you, writing, for helping me fill the hole I burned long ago.