Dione Jones

Anger simmers under the flesh and hair and veins, right to the core. Containment is a breeding ground for unsettled thoughts. My own hysterical voice jolts me out of my own skin. I can’t relax.

Feeling like your own body is a weapon deployed to destroy you. Like every open pore, unwanted sensation, natural function, and ultimate unwillingness to be how you want it, is a personal attack set on tearing you down to nothing but all you see and despise.

String wrapping like a net forming around all those parts of your anatomy that seem to stick out more and more, they grow before you in the mirror if you stare for too long. I’m tired of being at war. I’ll set out to see just how far I can push this vessel, let it know I’m not quiet, let it know that I’m not going to be docile in its wrath, but I’m prepared for what it throws and I’m ready to scream and throw a fit.