Walking Tall on Weak Ankles

Over and over flashes these violent thoughts of beating down my demons and bullies. Some are imagined, I create whole scenarios to invoke bloodlust and act out my aggression. They mock everything. They way I walked, smoked, read books with earbuds in. I act aloof but me so sensitive. The jabs are bruising my midsection and I can’t stop rehashing and repeating, eggs and bacon mornings with the taunts fulminating inside. And I just want to smash them, smash their smug, entitled, malice-inducing faces with tire irons and crowbars,  tempered with tempered steel. Magnolia magnum snub nosed pistol grip pump. But I am nonviolent, ahimsa. I turn that besotted cheek and walk tall on weak ankles. Gripped with the tongue of revenge just aching for a right quick bitchslap to those arrogant white boys. They deserve something. Mediocre bullies multiplying phenomenally in a less than zero world. Kindness at the decimal point and am I on the wrong side? Do I shield myself or have fits of restrained anger jostling the blood? Drown my nagging wounds in spiritus santos next to icons of holy water fire water. Taste the tip make me forget. Turn me on Mr. Deadman.


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