I’m Not Proud of Hulking-Out
Once upon a time, I was in my early twenties (about),
my Mom came over with my brother to hang out:
I was already hanging with my Twin in her room,
chatting about something, and cleaning her gun.
I have no idea, to this day, why- when Mom rounded the corner,
hadn’t even entered the door, but stood in front of the threshold,
I dropped the brush, flipped the chamber closed, and aimed it at her,
knowing it was completely empty, without thinking, pulled the trigger.
I knew it was empty, I wasn’t even mad,
I genuinely felt, absolutely nothing in that moment-
but my Mom had no way to know that.
I was c a l m and collected,
and all it did was click,
but her heart stopped,
and she nearly dropped,
and she heard me laugh.
There was no reason.
It made no sense,
I’m her Mandy-girl,
and whimsical crescent!
-and we're reminiscent;
in echoed flashes
of other gun-barrels
aimed at us.
We joke about it now-
not when I hulk-out.
When the rage takes me,
I cannot stop
doesn’t matter what I want,
I start destroying things,
I don’t intend to keep,
because rage can’t speak,
look like I’m crazy
because rage can’t see,
don’t stop till I’m bleeding
because rage is all I’m feeling,
and the violence of it sickens me.
How do I stop... me?
How do I prevent the apologies?
How do I let the rage go to think clearly?
If anyone knows, I’m listening.
Through tears that follow the rage, I’m hoping.