My view is distorted, marred by the tears that drip down my cheeks and stick to my eyelashes. Watery black streaks mark the inside of my glasses, where I blinked and left mascara smudged on the glass. Everything around me seems dreamlike, too vivid, sorrow and anger and hitcryscream curling in my stomach like a vicious stew, threatening to burst out of my small frame. I want to throw something. I want to smash a vase into the ground. I want to jump off a building and see if I can fly. Even if I can’t, I’ll still be going somewhere better than where I am now.

My fingers clack against computer keys, hard. My frustration forms sentences, my melancholy makes paragraphs. I scowl. These words are not the ones I wanted. This story cannot convey my emotions. I try a poem, the ultimate carrier of feelings, but all I can type before my anger rips the still-forming poem to shreds is

I hate everything

English is not strong enough to hold the words I need to use. I need something authoritative, something dangerous. Low and powerful like the deep rasp of a panther on the prowl. A growl. Anything other than the soft vowels and short consonants of human speech. This is not enough.

My mind rages with curse words and sharp retorts. I long to put my fist in a wall, my foot through a window. Every part of me aches, but none more so than my mind. I have a migraine- a migraine of conflicting emotions, preparing to war inside of me. My thoughts take up arms and battle to the death; the mean, angry thoughts shout in excitement and skewer the lesser, softer ones, for they are strong. With every sweet soldier lost, the storm brewing within me grows.

Hate? Hate is an understatement. I don’t hate- I loathe. I detest. I rage. I glare at every movement in my surroundings, just daring anyone to take a swing at me. I need a fight. I need to hurt something. Punching a pillow isn’t enough. I need to see that I have physically made a difference. I need to see blood, a bruise, something.

The soul inside of me boils in a soup of passion. Soon, it will get so hot inside of me I will have to let the steam out in some way or I will surely die. This degree of pain and of anger was not meant to fester inside of me. I was meant to be happy, innocent.

Instead, I am pure fury.