Anya Tukhus's blog

Following was my experiment at using writing to process my deepest, personal challenges:

The Source

Altruistic illusions
of narcissistic delusions.
Blatant manipulations
of fragile family situations.

My anger is all that scares me now.

I can only conjure up
an image of a child on the floor
legs kicking
arms punching
mouth bawling
soul wailing
because I am too afraid to face
the white hot rage
in my burning chest
my clenched arms
wobbly knees
trembling lips.

I would rather cry
rather sleep
rather medicate the anxiety, the depression, the feelings of dread.
I would rather accept myself as a worthless, hopeless, miserable
piece of shit.
Or some days, I would rather remove myself from this world
than feel that rage.
Some days, I would rather remove myself from this world
than feel this rage.
This blinding,
screaming,
murderous
rage.

How dare you act as though we are friends?
You know nothing about me and you never have!
How dare you speak to me
in your sing-song voice
with your wide-eyed innocent concern?
You think we are close?
We were never close.