Anger darkened this doorway in a form that my local postal code had not seen in ages.
I set all of my belongings down in a tiny one-room apartment at five o'clock in the morning after frantically throwing everything I owned into arms to be carried and bags to be dragged to flee the wrath of the man I was living with.
And then found myself in the next moment embracing a toilet, sobbing and dry heaving whilst the poor unfortunates who stood by looked on with dismay because there was truly nothing to be done.
She has to feel it.
I raged and ranted and hurt and cursed and collapsed but clammered to standing again because I am, in fact, so desperately afraid of those depths that I felt washing over me like a surge of cold incapacitation.
I decried the injustice in having men who hate me, who leave me, who belittle me, who make me feel like a victim.
I loathed everyone that loves me and decided that they could see these depths for all it was worth and then run from it all with terror because I had become what I despised the most.
I wanted to sear it in minds and open eyes to this pain, to make them all feel it to the nth degree and I wanted this black hole to open up and swallow me for infinity because I felt like I was getting used to the idea of falling.
For the first time in what I thought was only the past I strived without pause to do the only thing I knew to do.
I wanted to loathe myself with the fervor that I had met and I wanted to call it "friend."
A Lesson In Frailty.