“I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.” – Charlotte Bronte, English novelist.

What profound monsters live in the center of my ribs, drowning in cruel jokes as thick as poisoned honey, lining my throat with quills. I close the door and they swallow me, strings attached to every limb, a film that coats the inside of my body and shrinks with every breath. Bring me the head of this discontent, show me the platter, silver and red, show me the reason for this escape. Where was it that I felt betrayed? Depths, darkness, hair wrapped around my finger, a reminder, the source of the stifled anger, silent until it surfaced, a comment laced in arsenic, self-resentment, and, at worst, a painful thread of hate.

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