Pocket of Rage

Table of contents

***

Sorry, sorry,

my bad,

I don’t have the words

for why.

Make

a mistake

break

a cake

freak out

 and shout

  end the tear duct drought

 stab Gacks

and slay racks,

I’m so angry

I could just cry

the whole time.

What is the lesson,

say what is confession

don’t mess with witches then ask us a question,

shut up

song in my head

no

no

no

it’s all wrong

where did the pocket full of rage go,

must’ve dropped it

must’ve tossed it

to the clouds

let it rain

tears betray me

I was going to write up a letter

about how angry I am

to save it for posterity–

the Witch Kook

and her broken heart,

A cautionary book

on how not to let

rage take you too far

Tsk tsk

don’t be like the old witch,

dear children–

if she ever had any of those

(she didn’t)–

just take her at her word

that you don’t want to be like her.

Angry.

Consumed by fury.

Crying half the nights

she should’ve been asleep.

Darn it I’m angry

because someone said I shouldn’t be

and that really ticked me off.

But I was angry before that

‘bout something someone said

that got me feeling like words

should require safety warnings

and hunting licenses to use.

And I was angry before that

‘bout how long it was taking me to learn,

and I was angry before that

cuz the heat was pouring sweat on my neck

in our stupid truck

and I’ve been angry

because I’m insecure and keep trying to convince

myself

that I

belong

with the demons.

Do you believe in an omniscient being

who loves everyone, even them?

I sometimes think

that if there is someone

who loves everyone

the point of all that love

loses meaning

when handed out so equally.

Cuz if everyone’s super, no one is.

So more than the annoyance of heat

and classes

and insecurity

I think I’m angry about that.

The love.

That I have an overflowing ocean of love

but so does everyone,

and I don’t think I want to be loved like everyone,

I think I want to be special.

I think I want to be important.

I think I want to be powerful enough

to say “stop” and “do something” and “help me”

so that somebody actually does.

Or maybe that is love,

being important and special and powerful.

Is that love?

I just don’t know if anyone except you has listened to me,

so what’s the ocean of love really accomplishing

if love is supposed to mean you care–

I mean, probably some kid I babysat

a hundred years ago

listened when I said “don’t cross the road,”

so hooray

a person has functionally and literally done what I said

but what about, like, something that mattered to me?

What about

when I say

I need you

right now

to let me cry at your feet

and throw my pocket of rage at you,

and if that comes

with my whole dress

maybe I need you

not to laugh at my wrinkled body,

maybe I need you to see me totally exposed

and not turn your back.

Is that too much to ask?

I think I’m angry about that.

About how many people have turned their backs.

How that number isn’t that high,

yet I’m still scared to show my feelings to anyone new

while still wanting to.

I’m angry at myself for that fear.

And I think I’m angry my friends knew how to be friendly

but only as far as it helped them get a head for a brew,

I think I’m angry at how much I lay on the line to sacrifice

without meaning to

until it’s too late and taken

then I wonder how this desert in me got to be here

like it isn’t obvious who stole the water,

I think I’m angry at my former-friends for shouting so much about stupid things

I think my anger will add force to the word “stop” to make its power more real

than witch magic

I think my anger can do for me what friendly faces don’t,

I think it can save me when I can no longer keep myself afloat.

So yeah I got my anger

all knotted up in a pocket

unforgotten

and it’s weighing me down

yet fueling a fire

through the storm.

Hello. Can you hear me

screaming?