Nobody in the world knows
that I once put a hole in my wall
after a careless girl cancelled our date
in favor of the the other guy
she’d apparently been talking to the whole time.
Her name is carved into the wall
beneath that hole she made me make,
all hidden from view by a portrait of Jesus,
one day to be repaired
along with all the other damage
this little apartment has endured.

A friend recently had to go to the doctor
with a hand bruised from his own wall.
His mom said of the incident,
Why not punch a pillow next time?

Isn’t that the advice we always received,
to take our rage out on an innocent pillow?
But my problem with pillows is they don’t bite back.
They don’t make noise and they certainly don’t break.

I have discovered
great and euphoric catharsis
in taking an object of molded plastic
or glass
and slamming it
on the tiled floor of my kitchen,
then listening to the rain
of all the fractured pieces
as gravity tries to wrap its mind
around a thing that no longer exists.

A little contrivance,
a disagreement with a friend,
once inspired me
to uppercut a paper towel dispenser
when alone in a public bathroom,
all rage and lust for destruction
squeezed into the strike,
but to my disappointment,
the dispenser remained unscathed.

I did, however,
split a couple of knuckles
drawing out a beauty of blood
I stared at for the rest of the night.

As sores fester and grow
turning even the gentlest touch
into an all out assault,
every abrasion
produces a silent scream
echoing only in my head.

Lord help me.
This is the inside and the outside
coming to a harmony of brokenness
where the people around me
have failed to properly love me.
I am drained of life
by those who take, but never give,
and in that vacuum,
evil stirs
this appetite for destruction,
as if breaking everything around me
will rip the rage from my spirit.
As if surrounding myself with shattered things
will eventually make me feel
a little more whole.