it always ends with anger. like tragedy wound tight like a spring. the sequence of events already in place. there is nothing you can do but shout, yell, scream. its all in your head. the play where the villian gets shot, its not you. you can't be the villian. you don't look the part. the hero gets the girl and rides into the sunset.
what does he do when the sun sets?
you wait. your emotions peak and then sink like a whirlpool in a silent cave. silence, long suffering silence. you're tired. on your face, nothing but a picture of calm. nothing you didn't already know about. its your fault for letting yourself be played and played and played. you never learn, although you say you do and think you do and mean you do. you don't.
have some self-control.
it'll do you some good to look back , to use your head. to look at all the other times it happened. forget your heart. what good is a heart other then for the sole purpose of pumping blood around your person. nothing. an organ the size of your fist. you can't even use it to hit back.
the taste of blood when the boxer lands his first punch. you don't feel the pain, just the adrenaline chorusing through your veins. when you land your own punch, feeling glorious release in his agony. his agony.
