Teardown and Tending

I can get angry.
So angry.
I sling spittle
while I sling my words,
daggers that cut
the fleshy hearts
of those I love.

I am barbed wire,
I am a cyclone
that leaves nothing
standing in my wake.

And, dare I say,
I often like my wickedness.
I find satisfaction
in the bruising, the blood.

But really,
who am I bruising
but myself?

There is a part of me
who is desperately hurting
and she doesn’t know
how to heal,
so she hurts.

She is the one
cowering in the corner
as the cyclone passes,
eyes saucers of terror,
heart skipping beats,
irregular.

She is the one
who wants to help
her neighbors
in the aftermath
but has enough debris
in her own yard to tend.

I am both sharp and scared;
an animal trapped becomes wild.
She doesn’t know
what is happening,
so she shakes and snarls;
she just wants to be free.