You make me sick.
You fill me with so much rage I start to question who I am, because the person I know does not feel hatred like this. The person I know abhors violence and the idea of punching your face and feeling your check split beneath my fist. But I do not. I crave it. I know that my words will slide off you because you are too arrogant and unaffected to be reasoned with. I know that appeals to your humanity will be swiped away because your world view was formed atop a tower looking down. But my knuckles will stick. My boots will bruise you. You are not invulnerable. I want to make you understand what it feels like to be the people whose lives you toy with and trivialise – powerless.
You are loud but you are nothing. Your words are empty and they cannot hurt me. Your rules are not my rules and you will not contain me. You will not make me believe that my mind is inferior, that my body is not my own.
I am not weak.
You are.