The things she knows

She understood rage. She understood how it is to be truly angry, to be burning with fury, to have waves of righteous indignant anger rolling off your skin. She knows fury like she knows her own reflection in the mirror. She’s angry, she’s seething but she can’t let it out. She can never let it out. She’s not allowed to and she’s afraid of the damage she’ll cause if and when she does let it all out.

She understands sadness. She has taken melancholy into her arms and embraced it tightly against her breasts. It’s like a million blunt pins pressing upon your heart – that’s pure sadness. You can never pull these pins out nor can you make them sharper, just so they can embed faster and deeper. No. Sadness remains there, shallow and immobile; making you lose a breath or two if you wish it to be gone.

She understands wanting. Longing has become second nature for her. All these beautiful things she craves for are just there, in a glass cage, where she can see but can’t ever touch. It’s a cruel reminder, a taunting of epic mindfuckerage. It’s the universe’s sick joke on her: “Look at the possibilities you can never have”. It kills her; slowly and painfully so.

What she wants will never be hers. Who she is will always be contradicted. Where she’s from, what she can do, will always be a mystery. She’s everything and nothing, no one and apparently someone to look up to, to fear, to covet. She doesn’t forgive. She never had that privilege. What she does is to corrupt, to tempt, to hunt and to destroy. She does this not because of a perverted sense of justice or pleasure. She does this because it’s the only thing she knows she’s good at. And maybe, just maybe, it’s something that she wants to do.

What she understands is what she knows. Beyond that, there’s nothing else for her. Everything else is luxuries of the mundane.