The Silent Rage

Sitting in silence,
I always listen,
To the dictations,
And to frustrations,
Of others.

I express nothing,
But apathy.
To the situations,
Laid before me.

I can do nothing,
Except mumble,
Or groan in acceptance.

Trapped in my own thoughts,
I begin to query myself,
My responses,
To life changing dilemmas.

Do I truly care?
Do I feel anything at all?

I do.
But inside.

Walls crumple,
And invisible tears shed.
I want to scream.
I want to cry,
In agony.

I am but a porcelain mask.
A china doll,
That has not the capability,
Fixed in time.

Weeks go by,
And this façade plays on,
Like an old record.
Still listening,
Still unresponsive,
To what feels like domestic war.

The words,
Feel like tiny shards of glass,
Shedding away the skin,
The hardened, rough flesh,
The shell I hide in.

Then one day,
Like a stone broken in half,
I bleed.

Drop by trickling drop,
Emotional pain,
Seeps through the wounds,
The scars,
That I had thought healed over,

So many years ago.

It doesn’t take long.
A word,
A sigh.

Anger spills outs,
An eruption,
An unstoppable whirlwind;
I unleash the poison,
The venom.

Words that I’d never speak,
Thoughts I’d never think.

They wonder,
The victims of my wrath.

Where did that come from?
Why did you say such things?

Because I could?
Because I finally felt free?
A prisoner suppressed,
Like a bird,
Freed of its cage.

Because I’ve suffered?
Felt abused,

These outbursts however,
Are short lived,
Like they didn’t exist.

Yet I remember,
My actions,
My words,

And it makes me ponder.

Is this the real me?
A ravenous banshee,
Shielding herself,
Behind a pleasant maiden,
Waiting for the right moment,
To strike.

Like I had once done,
As a child.

Mentally tortured by this for a while,
I finally found myself at rest.
A volcano,
Becoming dormant again.

Forcing my silent anger,
To its temporary slumber,
Letting patience take over.

Made to relive the procedures,
All over again.
Skin always tingling,
From the last, and pending scratch.  

(c) Lauren Richards


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