I hate my anger, do you know that? They call it a “forbidden emotion,” and really, that’s what it is. Yeah. Forbidden.

“Don’t take your anger out on other people,” they tell me. “That’s not okay.” So I don’t.

“Don’t take your anger out on your things,” they say. Okay, whatever. So I don’t.

“Don’t make such ugly faces,” they say to my scowls of frustration. “You’re face might freeze that way!” Well, I guess I don’t want that. So I don’t.

They’ve left me no alternatives, really. I can’t show my anger, so I keep it all bottled up inside, like a hidden secret. Locked somewhere they won’t find it, deep inside the tomb of my emotions, the ones no one is allowed to see.

Looking in the mirror, all I want to do is bash it in, kick it, make all the ugly faces in the world, because I hate the face staring back at me. I hate it.

But I can’t do that. No. So I do what has to be done. Take the razor, full of my anger, and slide it across the perfect white of my arm, because this, this is what you have left me with.