iv/iii

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.

prompt: anger.
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