I was always on the verge of blowing up into shattered pieces of glass, or anything else that sorely bruises. But I never really exploded, or even came nearly close to having a slight crack that'll grow and grow and grow until I finally got broken. Never. I just kept it in and provided a safe shelter for all the anger and frustration and other bad things that wake us up in the morning from our sanctuary. It started growing life, I could feel a big blob moving inside me. Black. A big black vibrating blob. Right in the middle of my chest. I'd see myself cut through my skin with a scalpel just to get it out of me.

I was so angry and I couldn't do anything about it. 

So I painted, and I wrote, and I forgot.

Little by little. 

I drew sketches of lost bodies and empty faces. Because I was lost and I was empty and those bodies felt the same. And I painted them in black and blue and gray and white. I wrote about how much it hurts. I looked for words and words I found. They spoke for me and for how aching it is to feel so angry and helpless. I wrote it all and they spoke it all. I kept painting and I kept writing until I couldn't feel it anymore. It was still there, I mean, it's always there, isn't it? But I couldn't feel it. I forgot until I read the words I wrote and saw the paintings I stained. And they once again reminded me that I'm still so fucking angry.