The Seven Stages of Grief | Anger

The Seven Stages of Grief

iii.              Anger

You brought an ax into our bedroom the day you moved in,

Moving it around the house as a symbol,

As if to say,

Don’t forget that I can hurt you.

I want to tell you,

Don’t waste your time marrying the ax to my skull.

I want to tell you,

Marry me instead.

What I mean is,

I’ve already been hurting.

I hurt for all the times I’ve guessed and checked,

Bent my body into clever origami shapes,

To fit just right into your life,

Got it wrong,

Omitted,

Tried again.

I lift the weapon,

Just to feel the weight.

I look at you,

As if to say,

Who’s hunting who?

«

We have been on the phone for an hour,

Where we have both been working very hard to regulate me.

“You know what. Don’t call me anymore,” you cosplay control.

The line dies so quickly that I don’t have the opportunity to say,

“You called me,”

Without having to be the one to press the call key.

«

“Life is like climbing up a mountain with a backpack on,”

I had told you,

“And there are people who put rocks in your backpack,

And there are people who take rocks out of your backpack.”

Then,

“You never took any rocks out of my backpack.”

“We don’t have to do this,”

You said,

“I get it. I’m leaving.”

I wanted you to say,

“I’ll do anything for you,

Just name it.

I love you.”

But instead,

There was no rock in your hand.

«

Every time we’d argue,

I’d scream.

Even if I thought that I hadn’t,

The pain in my throat the next morning,

Would remind me what my vocal cords had been through.

You claimed I was over reacting.

And I told you,

No.

I was reacting.

Over,

And over,

And over again.

You didn’t understand the difference.

«

The difference was,

You turned me into a monster,

And then you called me one.

Congratulations,

I know how much you love being right.