Angus just left the room in a snit. Blaming me for his pesky woes. The nattering of my mind buzzes as I try to empty it. The feelings are filling me to the top of my capacity. I am full, not empty. I am stuffed, not zen. I am spilling over with emotion. It is oozing out of my seams. Squishy and gushy. Feelings all over the place. I hurt. I am bruised. I ache. I am pulped.
I hate it when he gets cranky. I hate it when he blames me. I hate it, and I hate him. I feel guilty because it feels like it is my fault. I push the complaint away with my vociferous rejections. Please don’t be mad at me is what I am saying, but it isn’t sugar-coated. It is more of a f*#$ you, and I will incinerate you with my words if you don’t back down mother f*#$er!
I am not proper and ladylike. Screeching and hollering are for the less evolved and the youth. But the instincts run strong. The instinct to annihilate. The instinct to decimate. The instinct to desecrate. The instinct to survive.
When you lob a bomb at me. I immediately want to lob one back. I feel hurt.
Sometimes I have the lofty perspective of sitting up on high, and I recognize he is but a mere mortal and suffering. Then I have no desire to destroy him. When I see his display of angst is no more