“Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
Isn’t that such a wonderful saying?
‘You aren’t allowed to be angry.’
‘Just forgive the person that ruined your life.’
‘It’s no big deal.’
‘The anger is just hurting you. They’re fine.’
Well guess what?
I’m PISSED. So I’m going to chug that poison and you can’t do a damn thing about it.
He was a mad scientist. Lab coat and all. His hair stuck out in all directions. It made you want to just… rub your fingers through it and smooth it out before messing it up again.
Goggles hung around his neck. He forgot to wear them every day, despite me constantly reminding him.
His lab was filled floor to ceiling with herbs, potions, saws, and various containers of specimens.
He was brilliant. Enchanting. I would do anything for him.
“Honey, I’m working on a new potion. Will you try it out for me?” Of course. Anything for you, Dear.
Warnings were plastered around his lab. “Keep out.” “Danger.” “Poison inside.” I ignored each sign every day when I entered that lab just to spend time with the man I thought I loved.
In my eyes, he was working to save the world. He was my world and that’s why I’m so angry. Why I’m pissed. Why I will finish every drop of that poison and wait for him to fall over dead. Because he was my world. And I thought I was his.
His work made the air grow thin. The boiling pot of his potion stole my breath. I struggled to inhale something, anything.
He created life. His mind wouldn’t stop until he had it right. But what I didn’t know was the life he created was stolen from mine. When I finally walked away, my life was no longer mine.
He was focused on the future while I was focused on the past. That’s how I knew it would never last.
He tore animal brains from the carcass, dissected them to find what made them tick. All the while my own brain was being cut open for him to pick.
When he had my brain out and vulnerable, he used tweezers to tug at insecurities and examine them under a microscope.
He clamped my sides, digging into my gut to kill the butterflies.
My arms were tied down and he took a knife to my wrists. Tweezers pulled at my nerves and he soothed the pain with a cold kiss.
He finished his inspection with my heart lying on a table. He cut it into sections, exposing it to the icy, dirty air. He poked at it with his head cocked to the side.
He met my eyes and the heart pulsed. He smiled, didn’t care when I cried.
I walked out cut, bruised, open and dissected from the hands of my lover holding a scalpel and a skull chisel.
I was in love with a mad scientist who was too in love with his work, with himself, to spare any love for me.
I did not die from the poison, I just became a little more dangerous.