An unreliable narrator
She was always at a loss for words
Expression never came easy, nor was
Compassion, understanding, empathy
Was not a word in her dictionary
Not a picture in her journal
Not an action she performed
Was why she lashed out with rusted blades
Not an attitude problem
Not a phase
Her Personality under developed
Her understanding of self was not concrete
She was a storm cloud furiously waging a war without a cause
Arsenals in her tool box.
Weapons she held beneath her pillow while she slept
Ticking time bombs she used to gut my sense of security
A rhythmic pattern she created
People she constantly frustrated
Confusing administrators, getting truant officers called,
her brain did everything it its power to make her life feel stalled.
Its furiously incessant buzzing and whirring chased her into the far reaching corners of her mind,
causing her to hide in its deepest of shadows.
Consuming her life-force.
These overwhelming thoughts carved themselves onto the inner walls behind her eye sockets,
Tortured her from the inside out,
invisible to onlookers.
Sounds comparable to
Screaming inside of a whirring blender
always on high, never time for her brain to experience calm.
She lacked a release.
No emergency button was ever installed into her system during creation.
And so she rampaged,
like a shaken up bottle of soda desperately, manically, expelling her internalized anger at those around her.
Over and over, never an explanation.
Screams, curses, violently crude phrases thrown against the walls
Ricocheting off of them
Reverberating into the three other helpless souls standing in her wake (never moving, thats family after all)
Absorbing her blows
scar after scar
burn after burn
Until the littlest standing figure could not take anymore
But the girl with a raging storm inside of her skull had already fled the scene.
In swept the calm, unfamiliar quiet.
How confused the little one became without fear knocking on her bedroom door at all hours of the night.
Confusion, her little stuffed panda keeping her warm in bed.
Time, sweeping open wounds under the rug,
the quiet house slowing filling with thoughts,
better left unsaid.