Brie Nicole Inked

It flips. No warning. One second I am fire, teeth bared, hands clenched around everything I wish I could destroy. I want to scream. I want to scorch the memory clean. I want something outside of me to break so the inside of me can finally rest.

And then, collapse. Water. Heavy, drowning, grief filling my lungs until anger feels like a lie I told myself to stay upright. I miss what hurt me. I hate that I miss it. I am furious that it mattered. I am broken that it did. There is no clean line here, no order. Just this violent swing between wanting to burn it all down and wanting it back.

Sometimes they overlap. Fire in my chest, water in my throat. I am choking on both. I replay it until it frays, until I can’t tell if I am mourning or raging or just exhausted. Maybe this is what processing looks like. Not clarity, not resolution, but learning how to sit in the contradiction without tearing myself apart completely.