Anger is a room

Anger is a room,

and I’ve been locked in it

for too long—

with too many ghosts.

--

The girl I love

closed the door

before I could land.

Even before the ticket was bought.

Said I’d get bored—

as if I’d fly thousands of miles

for entertainment.

I fly for her.

But she doesn’t see that.

Never sees me.

--

My roommate

walks through the house like

I don’t exist.

We used to talk.

Now I step lightly

breathe quieter

just to avoid reminding her

I’m still here.

--

And me—

I'm angry most all the time

I’m angry at myself most of all.

For eating what hurts.

For staying quiet.

For calling this

coping

instead of what it really is:

a slow unraveling.

--

I beat myself

lessen myself

criticize myself

make myself small

call myself a failure

until there's nothing left

of me

--

I’m fading.

--

I am tired

of being the only one

who seems to notice

the good things about me.

--

I want to scream

without apology.

I want to blame

without cleaning it up.

I want the world

to feel my pulse again

before I disappear completely.