don’t do that — don’t smile at me.
i don’t want the small curl of your lips, or the light in your eyes, or the warmth of your touch. i don’t want your support, or your comfort, pulling at me until i can breathe easy again.
i want the fury — i want the white, hot rage that makes my head ache.
i don’t want your sweet, soft words, or your understanding. i don’t need it. much to your disappointment, i’m sure — you are not an extension of me. you are not my lifeline.
i want the cold weight in my chest, the burning in my eyes of hot tears pooling, unshed. i want to scream until i can’t speak, & i want to throw punches until the skin breaks.
don’t tell me i shouldn’t be angry, don’t tell me i look prettier when i’m happy, that you like me better with a smile.
i don’t want to hear that i’ve got a grin that brings out the sun, because there’s a storm in this skin, & i’ll sit in the middle of a raging hurricane before i let you tell me i’m not allowed to be angry.