it fills my chest, burns its way between each of my ribs and stops somewhere in my stomach. i feel the pressure of it calling me, demanding i take action. it consumes me until all i can feel is the force of my own raw power and the need to simply act before i break my own bones.
it's name is rage and every time i feel it, i see your face and i hear your voice and my body kickstarts into a momentum i'd never achieve without the hot venom in my veins. it swirls around me, like fingers on a windpipe, until i see red and skip counting to ten.
i see you, and i see her,
a picture of two beautiful swans
linking together as i, the ugly duckling,
fill with something even stronger than love.
YOU ARE READING
Sutures
Poetrywe are not defined by our wounds, nor our scars, but rather, the things we do to make them heal. i.e. a collection of works meant to hold together the pieces of my brain and heart
