Rage

Relatives, get out. I'm not in a good mood.
Ok so I'm pissed. So mad, and at nothing that I can publicly describe, that I feel like I don't have a face anymore.
I hate the way people take control of my life- and what hurts, is that I let them.
Just because I don't talk about it all the time, I slip further into that shell that was never there. Sorry to bring her back- but that 14 year old looks up to me and asks me- Where the fuck do I figure? When was hate all about you?When was love so conditional? WHEN DID YOU DEMAND YOUR KISS BACK?
I have to answer her. I have to sit down and cry- funny thing, is that tears don't come anymore. A face that no one found special but adored itself now contorts with a fury that twists all its features so much, it scares the heart inside.
I want to hurt. I want to hurt so badly that this love-foe falls to his knees and begs for mercy.
And I fall to mine and cry.
I want to cry. Please let me cry.
I can't wait till the day comes that I get myself out of this. Suddenly the person who would rather be heartbroken than not fall in love has given up- and the bleak expression of the day award is in store for the one person who she looks to to make her feel like a smile could break the chaos that she's asked for.
Just because a person falls for the 15th time, doesn't mean that you shouldn't still offer that him a parachute.
I was right- I am scared this time, and I have every reason to be scared- my moods, my feelings, my belief have been shaken by this time.
Imagine Pankti Gandhi asking me, someone who was the emotional twin of Radhika of 15 asking me- 'You're moody?'
And the world thinks I just am that way.
No, I am not, morons.
I'm unbelievably a happy person. I live for the rain. I smile at the sun. I stare into it. Now I can't raise my eyes anymore.
It would have been less painful if I'd changed- my soul has changed, and my conscience doesn't sleep anymore.
Friends, fiends, family- they bow down after the drama ends- but that's when the drama starts. That's when I need the hands, not just the audience.
Writers are unbelievably lonely people. I thought I could change that. I'm crippled. I am not lonely- I just can't tell people stuff.
And man do I have arrogance- to claim to want to tell people everything, yet not say a thing.
Where did the self-love go?
Where did you go?
In that room, the other day, someone asked me what goes on in my mind when I get all 'moody', a term I've come to accept as a pseudonymn for Radhika.
I had it figured then- I push away all the people that I want, just to hope that they come back. I test, and I don't believe.
I'm a cynic, and I will kill my heart. That one thing that stood strong.
My imagination has run out on me.
Take me, or kill me.