Inside me, I feel a flood rising, waiting to spill out of my eyes at any moment. A mass has pooled in my heart, of anger and fear and worry. At any moment, one word or one look or one silence could send the liquid of my feelings forth into the world, via tears or words or a slap across that arrogant, unfeeling face I have to look at a few times a week.
I hurt.
It's partly self inflicted. I question, I rail, I ask why, why, why? I ask, when I know there is no answer I can hear that will satisfy me. I ask, knowing full well the answers will only tear apart the already shredded entrails of my spirit. I ask, as though I am unaware of the verbal onslaught that will happen occur each time I do.
I hurt.
Him. I hurt him, or at least he would hurt if he was capable of feeling anything. I use the only weapon I have, the sharp sting of cruel words. Like I sword, I wield them, cutting into wounds I know exist even if he's spent so much time trying to cover them up. With strokes swift and lashing, cold and calculating, I send the daggers of my words to where his heart must surely feel it. I can see it in his eyes and when I do, I cut deeper. As his pain grows, mine must surely lessen.
I hurt.
Despair. I despair what we have become. Made in the image of God? I've never felt such moments of contempt in my life, both being given and received. I sorrow for what we could have been, what we should have been. What have we to show for the years? Weakness of character, weakness of will and weakness of spirit; a pair of cowards.
I hurt.
