Sometimes I just want to rip the heart out of the world. I want to claw it into shards of devastation and shreds of destruction; then watch the ticker tape pieces fall to the earth around me, butterfly wings. I can picture picking up life as if it were a glass pane and throwing it into the rocks below a cliff. I’d watch with a wry, knowing, slightly crazed grin as it lay desolated beneath me.
I take a deep breath and carry on, the volcano erupting in my mind but never being allowed to break the surface. No one can see the pain and the agony holding the lava in causes, not even if they catch a glimpse into my stony cold, grey eyes. It’s only when I am alone that I allow some of the steam and pressure vent. Pops and bursts of pure, ravaged emotion that buckle the scene around me; that could melt metal and char bricks to dust if it were an actual physical entity.
This is my tattoo to bear, my Atlas like load to carry. To those around me I am unfazed by the strife and unperturbed by the constant strikes and curses that besiege this life in a maelstrom. Even those that love me are fooled, yet one day I know the façade will fail, the curtain will fall and the lid holding this torment it will explode. On that day I hope I will not be here.