Cranked

As I left the counselor's office I felt elation. It occurred to me that she had a shit job, but she seemed to enjoy it. She enjoyed my rage and fed off it in a cool way. I couldn't picture her raging at all, ever. The tinge of skittishness about the shoulders when I spoke of my hatred with accuracy.

She's getting into it, though. Two addicts cooking a spoon, getting anxious while boiling off pretence for the first time together. Eager to taste the goop of denied tar left behind.

Anger is healthy, according to her, a good motivator. And Fuck, she's right. She's counselling me through my pain as though she can fathom twenty years of tension smashed down like a piece of coal. Let's stomp through this mud puddle, we can surely wash it off later, when we start to feel unclean.

She's never had someone staring up at you in the eye, fists wrapped in your hair, desperate for you to stay and Fuck them because they have no idea how to function as your equal. Taking your rage as a good sign that things are normal. Taking it as a good sign things are in control.

Counseling people through their shit would drive me to mockery. Maybe she mocks me behind my back to bleed off the tension. Good for her. Do it to my face, let's do this. Verbal Russian Roulette.

Sharpening my tool. You're going to eat all these shit sandwiches that were layed out for someone else. Someone who bought the bread, prepared the feces and put the knife in my hand. Gobble it down, honey, I won't be happy until you hate her just as much as I do.

Today, I feel elation. War Ensemble pounds upon my deaf ears and bring joy to a horse voice.