pulsating rage

as the pavement melts the soles of my shoes

and the cigarette embers ebb and lick the tips of my fingers

the bottle of rage i drink from daily froths in disturbance

i anticipate eruption.

i squash my fire, breathe no oxygen, force it to die

force it to die

force myself to die

force it, me, us to stay quiet.

when does mourning beget the fury of trauma?

when does visceral, nauseating pain escape its canister of taught silence?

when do we invite rage to our party?

rage burns with the gasoline branded “Suffering”

but only accepted as soft soul-crushing whimpers of the dead night that knife the heart of humanity we all wish to claim.

but our love was forged in anger from risk from failure from vulnerability from a wish from a thought from…..attempt at life.

and i kill my rage with sleep and pills and booze and the cheap thrills of my feminized cock

and i know you kill yours because you and i still don’t talk of the ways we kill each other’s rage

as if the only one killing is me or you.

not and, but or — a mutually exclusive option.

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