It’s vicious this violence that lurks within you. It lies just under the surface, eager and waiting for the opportune moment to spring. Awareness of it has brought you closer to controlling it, but still you struggle with the reins on days like today, where too much energy, sexual or otherwise, has been left untapped - festering, blistering on the leather of your control.

When it snaps, you are almost always alone, untrusting of yourself near another who would see you quite as the demon you see yourself. It is that distance you keep between them and your true nature that keeps them distant in every aspect. So you rage in the walls of your home, thankful that only she might remember that vase that used to sit on top of the mantle and only she might - or might not - remember it.

Explanations are difficult because you won’t lie even as you are aware of the subtle change in her demeanor - the way she leans back from you, the slight frown that lightly dusts her brow. You wonder if it is her fear that your rage will turn on her.

Your knuckles are bloody - you’ve forgotten to tape them before beating the bag which despite your efforts, remains in one piece. It stands as a testament of strength, not yours, but its ability to yield to each punch while still keeping its strength intact. Were it to be that you could match its abilities.

When you are done you sit on the floor. Physical exhaustion always gives in before the mind finishes with its war. And while sweat sheets off of you and your chest heaves with exertion, you still feel better, worn out, bathed perhaps in the sweat, but more likely in the energy that washes away from you. It is a baptism of sweat and blood that has been repeated countless times in your life.

Still, despite the pain, you find yourself smiling as you push yourself up from the floor to stand.