Rage

I feel it in the corner of my mind,
waiting for a trigger, the smallest of sorts,
to allow for an opening for control.

My chest begins to tighten
and my vision blurs slightly,
I cannot control my voice
or the words that escape my mouth.

Nerves are tingling, standing on end,
waiting to pounce on the prey at hand.
Everyone is to be punished,
guilt need not be proven.

I sequester myself in a dark room,
steady my breathing, knowing it won't end it.
I search my drawer,
seeking a way to distract myself.

I feel the weight in my hand,
the coolness of the handle.
I do not feel what I see,
the blade cutting into my shoulder.

I see the blood slowly make a path on my skin,
but pain has not registered yet.
Suddenly my nerves begin to react,
pain displacing the rage once overwhelming.

I put the knife back in its place
not to be used again, or so I tell myself.
I know the emotion will win the battle,
and I will have to bleed the rage out once more.