Anger

I gave birth to another person, a person no one knew or loved before finding her way from in between my skin.  I carried life in my womb and felt another person breathe through my own mouth.  I felt her hiccups dance underneath my rib cage.  I remember touching her skin for the first time.  I was convinced I was in heaven.  It was then that I understood the frailty of life.  It is precious and it is a gift we can never truly comprehend.  Life has a smell. It has a warmth.  It has a purpose.


That wasn't to remind you about the beauty of life but to bring you to the meaning of death.  I want to knock on God's door and tell Him sixty three years wasn't enough but who am I?  Who am I to waltz through the leasing office of Heaven and complain that this "living" situation ain't living at all?


I'm angry.  Angry to the point where it spills onto the pages of everything that used to make me happy.  Even my skin is angry, tingling with resentment and questions.  Sometimes my humanity disgusts me and I cry the anger out.  I write the anger out.  I scream the anger out and end up empty which only leads to fear because when you're empty, you're easy to occupy.


Death is like a tornado and even though they tell you to stay still and hide, I think sometimes you have no choice but to let the wind take you where it may and hope that you land safely.