Creative Cardinal #8
The pink bubble snapped again. Pop. Crinkle. Crunch. Right in my earlobe. She did it on purpose. I try not to get angry, but I can't help it. They walk over me and stomp on me and some days I just can't stay hidden anymore. I decided right then and there that I was going to skin her face and turn it into one of those neat leather purses hanging off silly college-women shoulders. Fuck off, Gucci, I have my own sense of style. It involves red plaid miniskirts and arms shaded with sapphire bracelets and not spending one-hundred dollars to buy a new blouse.
Anger is always something I've wrestled with. There was a beach once where I clobbered someone with a sea-shell. Conch, I think. I kind of regret that because it wasn't really her fault her boyfriend kicked sand in my face (it felt like eating road grit). She just happened to be within reach of my grotesquely skinny hands. You wouldn't think fists the size of sausages would hurt, but I leave everyone who angers me just a little raw. Red-faced bitches. Soft-dicked manwhores.
Like I said, I've had a temper since I learned to walk. Stomp, more like. I consider ti a sign of intelligence. I know the world isn't supposed to be this way and it pisses me off. I want to scream when I hear about suicide bombers killing children, but I can't do anything about it so I slam my shoe into whatever wall irks me at the time. They shoved me into therapy when I bit my orthodontist. She wanted to give me braces, I wanted to give her a headache. Neither of us came out satisfied. Mom always nicknamed me "Little Hulk" because of the fights I used to start, just because people said things to me. I know that words can't really hurt, sticks and stones and shit, but their taunts scraped at my soul until one day my self-restraint just ripped apart. I was a good girl, until then, and I didn't do much more than stomp.
That day... they threw me down under the teeter-totter and let it bash my ankle. I was stumbling for a week. I've never seen such purple oozing. Mom wouldn't even pick me up from school, told me to stop being such a crybaby. The teachers all ignored it. Right then and there, I knew I had to deal with things myself. I made sure I hurt those assholes them anyway I could. Sometimes I stabbed them with fingers or pencils or threw spitballs at them, but mostly I used a woman's weapons: gossip, lies, and feral stares. My favorite was when I left a girl handcuffed to the jungle-gym. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but she had gone over my physique in explicit detail telling me how ugly I was. I hurt her, because she made me believe I was worthless. They suspended me for awhile, but school was glorified daycare. My ass can stand an occasional spanking for the pleasure of revenge.
I know I'm bad. I know I should know better. I'm all grown up now, but I never have been able to leash my temper since. No cool beaches, no pleasant sunsets, nothing beautiful ever runs through my eyes free of blood or the people who grab at me, call me names, trying to rip off my clothes and throw me front-first onto a dirty pool table. It doesn't even matter if I'm wearing three feet of flannel, I just draw people with my rage. They can see my defiance in my eyes and they want to punish me for it, for being different than them, for refusing to succumb to the montony of life. I will not be ruled by them just because they're stronger for me, and the hate in the tension of my limbs makes me an obvious target.
That's why I try to stay quiet, now. That's why I don't like to talk too much or even listen. I get so angry so easily, and when I feel my blood begin to boil they're on me again like cobras, bad memories stinging my flesh like bullets of paper. Just words, I tell myself. Dumb bitch. Cunt. Worthless. Just words. They don't define who you are, what you are.
Then what are you? A girl who can't learn to give in and walk away.
Don't be angry or they'll see you and hurt you. Don't stand out or they'll find you and rape you. Pretend you are just another mild-as-milk-mush, backwards-looking, California blonde who knows nothing of politics and less of using crochet needles. Certainly nothing of using them to stab the bastards in the back.
Anger is always something I've wrestled with. There was a beach once where I clobbered someone with a sea-shell. Conch, I think. I kind of regret that because it wasn't really her fault her boyfriend kicked sand in my face (it felt like eating road grit). She just happened to be within reach of my grotesquely skinny hands. You wouldn't think fists the size of sausages would hurt, but I leave everyone who angers me just a little raw. Red-faced bitches. Soft-dicked manwhores.
Like I said, I've had a temper since I learned to walk. Stomp, more like. I consider ti a sign of intelligence. I know the world isn't supposed to be this way and it pisses me off. I want to scream when I hear about suicide bombers killing children, but I can't do anything about it so I slam my shoe into whatever wall irks me at the time. They shoved me into therapy when I bit my orthodontist. She wanted to give me braces, I wanted to give her a headache. Neither of us came out satisfied. Mom always nicknamed me "Little Hulk" because of the fights I used to start, just because people said things to me. I know that words can't really hurt, sticks and stones and shit, but their taunts scraped at my soul until one day my self-restraint just ripped apart. I was a good girl, until then, and I didn't do much more than stomp.
That day... they threw me down under the teeter-totter and let it bash my ankle. I was stumbling for a week. I've never seen such purple oozing. Mom wouldn't even pick me up from school, told me to stop being such a crybaby. The teachers all ignored it. Right then and there, I knew I had to deal with things myself. I made sure I hurt those assholes them anyway I could. Sometimes I stabbed them with fingers or pencils or threw spitballs at them, but mostly I used a woman's weapons: gossip, lies, and feral stares. My favorite was when I left a girl handcuffed to the jungle-gym. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but she had gone over my physique in explicit detail telling me how ugly I was. I hurt her, because she made me believe I was worthless. They suspended me for awhile, but school was glorified daycare. My ass can stand an occasional spanking for the pleasure of revenge.
I know I'm bad. I know I should know better. I'm all grown up now, but I never have been able to leash my temper since. No cool beaches, no pleasant sunsets, nothing beautiful ever runs through my eyes free of blood or the people who grab at me, call me names, trying to rip off my clothes and throw me front-first onto a dirty pool table. It doesn't even matter if I'm wearing three feet of flannel, I just draw people with my rage. They can see my defiance in my eyes and they want to punish me for it, for being different than them, for refusing to succumb to the montony of life. I will not be ruled by them just because they're stronger for me, and the hate in the tension of my limbs makes me an obvious target.
That's why I try to stay quiet, now. That's why I don't like to talk too much or even listen. I get so angry so easily, and when I feel my blood begin to boil they're on me again like cobras, bad memories stinging my flesh like bullets of paper. Just words, I tell myself. Dumb bitch. Cunt. Worthless. Just words. They don't define who you are, what you are.
Then what are you? A girl who can't learn to give in and walk away.
Don't be angry or they'll see you and hurt you. Don't stand out or they'll find you and rape you. Pretend you are just another mild-as-milk-mush, backwards-looking, California blonde who knows nothing of politics and less of using crochet needles. Certainly nothing of using them to stab the bastards in the back.
posted by Anonymous at 4:06 PM
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