I’m in that mood where I say things that will hurt.  I’m in the mood that doesn’t care just how badly they hurt either.  I feel the contradiction of my stillness and the tumultuousness that rages just under its surface.  I look tired to anyone that might come across me, who don’t know me well enough to identify the mood.  It’s the stillness, you see, the quiet stare off into the abyss.

If it breaks upon someone, it is usually with cold, calculated hatred.  And it does feel like hate when it hits, because I just don’t want to control it until I’ve actually made you cry, or worse, hurt you so badly that agony stills the rise of tears in your breast.  I’m dangerous like this, and its this mood that strengthens my desire for a woman that doesn’t make my words her new internal voice.

Strength that allows you to lift your head and look at me when you know I’m disappointed in you.  The strength that allows you to stand when you know I’ll only put you on your knees again.  The strength that looks back at me through the streaks of salty tears, and the blood at the corner of your mouth.

Strength.

My own keeps me silent when everything inside me is raging.