In front of me there is a table full of shit.

Anger courses through me. I grip the edge, harsh, digging my nails into the wood. I don't have the strength to scream.

I slam my fist onto the table. The sting from the impact blooms from the side of my palm. I don't care.

To the right is the wall. So I position my arms there.

In one fell swoop, I throw everything off to the left.

Immediately there is a cacophonous sounding, insurmountable discord. Papers scatter wildly to the wooden floor. Pencils clatter down. Pens clinker off the floor. My lamp ker-thunks, making a dull, metallic ringing sound. A glass falls and breaks, shattering and smashing, the sound burning bright bright bright.
Slam. Slam. Bang. Bang.
No punching bag needed.

But the sharp noises anger me more. Everything is loud.
But I am still too tired to yell.

The ground floats up to meet my knees. My bare leg stabs a piece of broken glass. Slice, slash. It's razor, the pain infuriating all the more.

Through gritted teeth, I hook my fingers around the nearest broken shard still big enough to grab. The thin edges create micro cuts in my skin. I don't care. I twist my body and hurl it at my wall.

It splinters, rebounding with a minuscule shattering sound. Instinctively, my arms whip up to cover my head. 

I breathe, glaring, heaving, panting. I am not satiated.

My arms lower, my hand closes around a stray piece of paper, scrunching it. I crinkle it steady and tear it down the middle. I take one of the halves and rip it up. The sound is more musical, more palatable, than the din offered up by the whole contents of my desk hitting the ground essentially at once.

Stupid stupid tears making my eyes too spicy to see. My nose runs. My mouth and my throat well up with crying. I want to shriek. I want to screech.

I don't want to be here, in this body. This stupid, human body. So powerless. So perceivable. So weak. So weak. So susceptible, so easy to hurt. So futile. Nothing I can say or do will change me. The feelings have to be genuine and they're not. 

My face scrunches up.

Rage. Bellowing to life, burning, breathing, awoken and ablaze. I do not want to cry again. I thought I was done crying. Why do I always cry?! Am I not out of tears? Have I not given enough?!

My ribs are jagged, too constricting into me. My windpipes are trapped in between two unscalable cliff faces, the air I need to fuel me getting too caught around the edges. My chest groans, a moving sea of inconsolably murderous melancholy.

From my knees, I sink even lower. I fall to my side, sobbing. Shards of glass stick into the soft, fleshy part of my torso, in-between my ribcage and my hipbone. The adrenaline soothes the pain, taking it up in the rush, blurring and bleeding it out into my system; breaking it up so it comes in small doses, manageable.

The sting gradually flows away.

In the midst of my sobs, I am finally able to open my vocal cords. And all that comes out is a wail, like a wounded gazelle. It's animalistic, primal.

I feel sick. This horrible body needs food. It's running on fumes and using up the last of its exhaust just to cry.

Mucus lines my throat. My shirt is stained with snot and tears and blood.

As I lay, tears winding into my hairline, the anger seeps out of me.

The aggravation and damnation leads through me, spreading to my fingertips, being pushed to my skin by my thumping heart. And then it leaves my body, the wrath puffing into a ghost once more. Leaving behind only stains of what it once was.

I don't have the strength to be angry any more.

Animal laments, sounds of primal pain. The air dancing alight with my uncontrollable sobs and strained moans.

I am left in my mess. Curled up and crying.
Anger and fury, broken and gone.