Rage Fucking

My rage is its own person standing next to me. He’s taller than I am and his shoulders are broader. When I eat, he’s there to drag my food off of my plate onto his own. I’m not usually one of these people who’s angry at the world. I don’t sit in the dark and blame someone else for my failings. I’m not a wall puncher. I don’t throw things across the room. But I do hate. When I swallow, all I taste is the venom left behind from a lifetime of mistakes and transgressions. What am I to do with this foul disgusting flavor in my mouth?

My rage is directed inward. Watch me long enough and you’ll catch me talking to no one, scolding myself for some distant memory that rolls across my mind for the billionth time. I’ll think, I must look like a crazy person. And my rage is standing there laughing at me. Stack up self-hatred against racism, homophobia, antisemitism, and xenophobia self-hatred is undefeated. I feel it like a ticking clock hours before my death sentence. Cut me, and I’ll bleed toxic sludge. It’ll ooze out of me and drip onto the floor. Puddling, it will eat through the linoleum and then the concrete slab. It will seep into the soil and infect the drinking water. Drink from the tap and you feel me burning the back of your throat.

And if I’m being honest, I’m glad. Today, I’m fucking glad. I’ll feel better knowing the rest of the world is choking on the same shit I’ve been choking on my entire life. I know what the other side would say. “It isn’t healthy to feel this way. Wanting others to hurt because you hurt doesn’t make things better.” Excuse me as I dislocate my shoulders from shrugging so hard. Take a look around. All this world is, is hurt people hurting other people. I’m supposed to be the one evolved enough to handle my own shit?

I wish I could have sat here and written something about two people who fit perfectly finding one another in this crazy world we live in. That just isn’t the mood I’m in. Instead, I want to write about my rage in the hopes I can leave it on this computer screen. With what’s left I use it to drag my girlfriend by her hair over to the bed. I pull her shorts and panties down around her knees. I bend her over. I spit on my hand and run it between her legs. Then, I step out of the way and let my rage take over. He pushes me aside and presses his eight-inch wide and fifty-inch long cock against her wet slutty slit. I stand there in the corner like a sad little cuck watching my rage split my girlfriend in half. And what’s worse, she loves it.

She won’t know I’m feeling this way. I won’t tell her. But I inject her with a Chernobyl level of toxicity. I unload it all into her, my hands gripping her ass like I’m trying to rip the flesh off her bones. Her orgasm hides the fact that she’s melting from the inside out. Her squirting all over my cock distracts from her organs liquefying.

Out of nowhere, I find a second wind and I keep fucking, grabbing her hair and arching her back, pulsing inside of her, baseball bats pulverizing wooden mailboxes, shattered glass, forest fires, plane crashes, the concussion of mortar explosions on my chest, and the clarity the comes from being over it, just being over all of it, lost in the space between wanting everything to go back to the way it once was and wanting everything to be brand new, having no control over anything meaningful in my life while my fingers bleed from clawing at the walls, stomach acid tears, riots and looting, revolution, I fuck harder and harder; I can feel her skin turn grainy and course but I can’t stop myself- my momentum has reached terminal velocity and no matter what happens I am seeing this through till the end.

In front of me, my hips thrust into nothing. A pile of dust rests on the edge of my bed as beads of sweat roll down my brow. Sometime before dawn, I realize my rage is in the corner. He’s licking his fingers and laughing and I am unable to stop fucking the air where my girlfriend used to be. I am unsure if I am ever going to be able to stop.