An unreliable narrator

She was always at a loss for words

Expression never came easy, nor was

Compassion, understanding, empathy

Love

Was not a word in her dictionary

Not a picture in her journal

Not an action she performed 

Fear

Was why she lashed out with rusted blades

Not an attitude problem

Not a phase

Her Personality under developed

Her understanding of self was not concrete

She was a storm cloud furiously waging a war without a cause 

Screaming

Crying

Cursing 

Lying

Arsenals in her tool box. 

Weapons she held beneath her pillow while she slept

Ticking time bombs she used to gut my sense of security

Manipulate

Isolate

Diffuse

A rhythmic pattern she created

People she constantly frustrated

Confusing administrators, getting truant officers called,

her brain did everything it its power to make her life feel stalled.

Its furiously incessant buzzing and whirring chased her into the far reaching corners of her mind,

causing her to hide in its deepest of shadows.

Consuming her life-force.

These overwhelming thoughts carved themselves onto the inner walls behind her eye sockets,

Tortured her from the inside out, 

invisible to onlookers.

Sounds comparable to

Nails

Glass

Stones 

Screaming inside of a whirring blender

always on high, never time for her brain to experience calm.

She lacked a release.

No emergency button was ever installed into her system during creation.

And so she rampaged, 

like a shaken up bottle of soda desperately, manically, expelling her internalized anger at those around her.

Over and over, never an explanation. 

Screams, curses, violently crude phrases thrown against the walls

Ricocheting off of them

Reverberating into the three other helpless souls standing in her wake (never moving, thats family after all)

Absorbing her blows

scar after scar

burn after burn

for

years

Until the littlest standing figure could not take anymore

But the girl with a raging storm inside of her skull had already fled the scene.

Military bound. 

In swept the calm, unfamiliar quiet.

peace. 

How confused the little one became without fear knocking on her bedroom door at all hours of the night.

Confusion, her little stuffed panda keeping her warm in bed.

Time, sweeping open wounds under the rug, 

the quiet house slowing filling with thoughts, 

questions

things

better left unsaid.