Emotional Eloquence

I wish I could just say how I feel. Open my mouth and find a straightforward seam of sensation flowing finely into sound with satisfying linguistic logic. Unfortunately, such emotional eloquence eludes me. Instead I struggle with making sense of the melting-pot of malevolent mood simmering silently beneath the surface of my mind.

Here I am half way through my fifty-fifth year of life, still unable to give voice to the agonies of anger I feel fermenting in my veins, coursing and cursing and creating havoc in my heart. It hurts to hold it all in, all that painful passion turning to pure poison. It pierces my soul and sends enemy armies of septic spores seeping strategically under my skin.

Sometimes I just want to scream it all out in an unstoppable exorcism of ecstacy, rip right through the reasoned reserve and fracture the feminine facade that frustrates my feelings so. But instead of throwing the kind of tantrum more commonly associated with toddlers and teenagers I carefully and considerately keep my own counsel, quell and quieten my rage, swallow down the unpalatable unpleasantness and although it leaves me feeling sick to my stomach, sigh heavily and stay shackled to my shameful silence…

Daily Prompt: Tantrum

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