Does anger not brew inside your chest anymore?
Can you no longer yell?
No, you weep instead.
With your tears comes a wash
of icy darkness that swallows you,
engulfs your very senses you once trusted so dear,
and instead of engaging yourself in fury,
you gasp for air, you sleep in sorrows,
you burrow your heart so far down that you damage your soul
and every ember of frustration is pacified with the wind,
replaced with a methodical, groggy shakiness,
an almost snail's pace; a movement of the unmovable,
disgracefully showing itself to the world as it is;
a pitiful sadness, one that cannot admit itself
to questioning, lest it crumble before you,
sliding down harshly like a chunky liquid mistake,
something so unpalatable that one wishes they could forget the taste
and yet you are mute, silent to your discomforts
because you can no longer feel the rage of demanding respect,
but instead have let your heart spill with a self-pity and sorrow so disgraceful,
so mind-numbingly poor, that you cannot face your reflection without seeing blue.