For Anger's Sake

I punch the wall. The pain is jarring, but I just keep punching. My skin is exploding, chafing, sliding. The blood is surfacing, slipping, melting. I just keep going. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. Why would I? It feels so good, so good for the anger to be transferred from my broken mouth. The mouth from which I ground my teeth until the molars became flat, the teeth I clamped until they splintered into miserly pieces. Then my tendons snapped. Like taut strings they were slung back into my hand as tiny elastic balls. My fists involuntarily unfurled. I could not move my fingers. They were dead to me. Dead as the pain I should have known; dead as the weight inside my head. Dead as the creature I'd succumbed to.

I hate the anger. I want to keep going. I want to keep punching, but now my hands won't form a fist. My mind won't form the arguments. My intellect lacks the refutability for the altercations. But the spite just keeps coming. I can't stop it. I just can't fucking stop it.

I can't punch anymore so I turn around and start slamming my elbow into the wall...