dance fever

come on already, just write it down. you hate it so bad you wish you could step outside it long enough to kick it down the stairs. every swing of a boot into its ribs would be an orgasm. rage and loathing spewing all over the concrete and never spent.
tread the same ground over and over, learning nothing, losing every good thing it's entrusted with, and yet it's still trusted. no one suspects because it's too much of a coward to speak up.
weak, impotent, defective little thing, swollen with delusions of significance.
I want to scream the hate until my throat bleeds. I want to feel the electric rush of flesh impacting flesh, perp and victim reveling in their dance within the same misshapen body. belt across the face and neck, head against the wall, fists on the skull, round and round and back and forth. no one around to have any clue or try to stop it.
it's a drug, it's a crutch, it's a corner to be pushed into and hide in, it's within reach, unlike life.
I'll stop when it gets better, when the weakness and stupidity of it don't drop to the ground and unroll like the stench of a corpse and precede it into a room or a relationship or a job and wring inane words and lame excuses from its lips and lock it behind a glass wall where the Bright Ones are close enough to watch and hear but just out of reach.
I tried to break the glass but I bled all over them, they said they didn't mind but come on.
still hurts, still needs, and bears all the blame for that.