The Unkindest Cut

I have nowhere to direct the ever-present anger. I bite down on it, clench it in my teeth until my head aches, my neck aches, my whole body aches from the strain. I can't seem to find relief from it, nor can I release it, let loose the flood, pour it forth in a stream of vituperative, toxic words until I'm spent.

I must consider how I speak to my son, sweet child, little boy who trembles when he approaches me as I clean, muttering to myself, he trembles when he walks into the room and in his small-boy voice says, quavering, "Mommy? Mommy, I love you..." huddled in on himself and ready to fly if I move too quickly toward him. I've never struck him, never lashed out at him in anger...but he knows it is not safe...and he knows he needs to tell me...sweet boy...he loves me and doesn't understand.

I cannot let the angry words slip out into his world, so I chew on them, swallow the bitterness, and try to turn it into sweet smiles, cuddles, hugs, try to buffer him from it all.

I cannot speak to the people in my life - they have made their feelings plain, they don't want to hear it any more, they are bored with it, tired of it, can't bring themselves to care, to offer support let along help craft a solution.

So.

So, so, so.

What is the Angel to do?

A few days ago, I found myself staring at a knife, thinking about slicing, about pain and blood and release. I can see it, feel it, in my mind - just a small cut, tiny, it wouldn't have to be visible, and if anyone saw it I could blame the cat's claws, her startled jump at some noise or motion, it's happened before and I almost always have a scabbed over scratch or fine crimson line on some portion of my anatomy.

Anatomy.

I'm well schooled in anatomy. I could cut just the right places, feel the fiery burn shiver along its course, a slender tracery of the anger marking me, of the scarlet web encircling my psyche, holding me in, down, apart. I could make patterns, designs, a horrible sort of artwork out of it. Who would notice? I could hide it for days, months, years if I wanted to, always careful with my secret until the work is done.

I could.

I don't. I won't.

But I want to.

Oh, how I want to.

The unkindest cut...perhaps...is the one I haven't made.