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Fury.

By , Auckland, New Zealand
It’s like holding a ball of red-hot, barbed wire. It hurts so much but you know you have to hold on, because if you don’t, it will fly out of your hands and rip open everyone around you. The spikes dig into your hands and blood drips down your fingers, but still you keep them closed, knowing the consequences if your resolve wavers. Every time they hurt you the wire gets hotter and shakes in its fleshy cage, desperate to escape.
Sometimes you even want it to break free, to just let it go, just so they can feel a little of your pain, but you keep a level head and clench your fingers tighter, while the tears pour down your face.
Every time they stab you, you hurt yourself more by holding onto that ball, which is slowly getting hotter and hotter. If you manage to hold onto it long enough, it starts to cool down, and calluses start to form on your palms where the spikes cut into your flesh. Your fingers start to loosen and your back starts to straighten, no longer shielding them from yourself.
That’s when they decide to attack, and once again you’re crouched in a foetal position over the orb of your clenched fists, while they stab your back, limbs and chest. A pool of blood, sweat and tears forms around your feet until you’re empty and they’ve gone, and again you slowly stand up, eyes hollow and exhausted.
The saddest thing is, it’s addicting. All that anger. All those tears. It becomes part of your life, and you don’t want it to fade away. Because, sometimes, it feels like the pain is all you have left.





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