This new ache is on the right half of my rib cage. Maybe it’s the last knife he left behind. Tucked away for safe keeping. I am always the ghost town that people pass through for a scary story to tell. Because they know I don’t have the guts to set fire to myself, no matter how many times the poems mention flames. Instead, I am the mute girl. Has a voice but can’t work her mouth. Gestures with her hands too much. Asks if I can have a pen and paper instead. Uses the pen to practice impulse control. Uses the pen when I want to use the razor. Uses the pen when I want to swallow the pills. I stay in control of my hands. Most days. I calm the hurricane brewing in my chest, try to learn this is my own house I’m trying to destroy. I am a ghost town. I am the unnamed hurricane. I am ruthless enough to tear apart anything that stands in my way.
CONTROL, angelea l. (via wildfairy)
