Same as everything else, anger spills out, a product of narrowing space. Oozing black gas taking corporeal form with frightening speed, pluming up, wings stretching out, beak curved into blade. Black gas feathers ruffling, one of the only things I still feel. It longs to be free. And of course, so do I. 2 years, 11 months, and however many days. The space keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller and…

Anger has no room to stretch its wings. It escapes me, shapes me, reminds me of everything I used to be. He faces me, captor, oppressor, boyfriend. I don’t know what it is this time. I attack, carrying with me all my strength and a flimsy excuse for this anger. It spilled out, same as everything else.

Anger accuses him of views he never so much as intimated. Paranoia pulls up proof from poorly spoken words and purposeful misunderstandings. Talons screech against hardwood, beak open in a roar. Wings beating against the beautiful, warm, open space, swept clean by furies, infernal goddesses avenging my need for the infinite. I want freedom. I want freedom and I will take it if it is not given. The freedom to hurt, the freedom to cause pain, freedom, freedom, give me freedom any and all, anger will get it for me.


Eventually gas blows over, expanding into the atmosphere, swallowed up by stars. I have nothing left. He moves closer. The walls move closer.

“Will you apologize?”

What can I do? Anger is gone. Freedom…too.


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