any time i lash out, i wonder: am i turning into him? i give people too-many-chances, telling others: well, i might have overreacted. i shut down. bite my tongue. i hate that, at some point, i can be goaded into reacting, into letting go. i hate who i am when i'm angry - someone mean, quick-tongued, willing to cut to bone.

i am angry about what happened to me. i am angry about the ways other people saw what was happening and allowed it to continue. i am angry for the ways it was excused. for the ways i never got an apology, nor should i ever expect one. i am angry i let myself get used. i am angry for the ways i wasted my time and the ways i let myself be fooled. i am angry knowing - you don't care what you did to me. i am angry knowing - you'd rather burn apart our connection than actually consider my feelings.

i feel this anger tangled, brewing, constant - that i will never be able to reach a peace about it, because the anger just bristles, flaring in the center of it. i'm terrified of it - what if this is who i really am, and everything else is just veneer? if i really want to main & hurt & tear down until i have rendered the world into ice?

any impulse i have for self-preservation has become shadowed in a strange selflessness instead. maladaptive, i give and give and give, worried that i might be mistaken for someone who would take without asking. i owe so many current friendships to people who accepted my apologies and who gave me second chances - who am i to ever deny someone the right try again? when in the back of my head the kicked dog snarls a warning - she is lying - i turn my head. i tell the dog to shush. i tell the dog not to bite. i say we lie too sometimes. i say we will try to be honest and good and whole and if we are very-perfect, we'll never have to fight. i would rather lie down and accept the blow than be the one wielding the knife.

my sister sighs on the phone with me last night. you always go too far with patience, and let too many people use you.

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