inner feral child

Everyone has primal instincts. Everyone has outbursts of emotion where their teeth clench and their toes dig into the dirt. Arms flail, words become distorted or replaced by something less human, and savagery is adapted. Anger will always be within me, dormant but not inactive. No one suspects because I am the quiet one, the laughing one, the child who is so cutely naive. I smile so easily and the tears never come, but that doesn't mean I don't wish I could break. That's right: wish. I have a complex with weakness and cannot stand to have an audience when I cry. Even my presence urks me. Sometimes I wish I could lock myself in a white room, pull down the blinds, and take a deep breath. I'd pick up paint cans and make a lovely memoir to Jackson Pollock, embracing my inner feral child.

vent complete.