I feel nothing save blind rage; complete and total hatred. I must sequester myself from humanity. I must keep myself from adding wretchedness to an already wretched world. I feel ill. In my stomach and in my head. I feel weak save for those moments when I clench my fists and feel something burn in my chest. I am a serial number. But a serial number with fists. I will hide my fists away behind these closed doors. I will sit on them or tie my wrists together if I have to. But give me a good reason–a real one (not the kind my trauma invents but one that is actually righteous)–and I cannot promise I will not make someone bleed.

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