Then comes the Wrath...

Something that had been plaguing me for years now made sense.... It was like the answer to a terrible secret..... The thing is, it wasn’t me in my bed, it was my power grew angry that it was confined to my petite frame and pulled against my taut skin. Growing bolder, it tore through my skin to lay flat against my outer edge. When I'm angry, words burst out of me like a shout, or, if I'm sad, they spill out of me like tears, then if I’m right, and that they have all sorts of juicy information in that dossier, they’ll know that I am an abnormally forgiving person, even of those who have used me and hurt me more than one person deserves to be hurt. But right this second, I am looking forward to the day. Eventually I was cut off from my coven now and could not feel their thoughts. I could see the panic on their faces as I fell onto my side to convulse... Perhaps there is no greater form of survivor guilt than “I didn't try to stop it." Or “I should have told." The legacy of a helpless, vulnerable, out-of-control, and humiliated child creates an adult who is generally tentative, insecure, and quite angry... and then comes the wrath...

I am yet Calm... I am yet Me... Nothing forever will be me... Me Myself My Frame Contained in Me...