Shut and then open.

Torn and then sealed.

Fought and then loved.

Yet the window to anger is jammed.

Stuck open, letting the cold creep in.

Anger comes and goes in waves…

A pattern too large for you to see.

Yet the window is- and always will be-

…open.

“You let your anger get the best of you. It’s like a writhing demon within. You feel as though you are nothing without them,” the old lady bends forward, her eyes narrowed. My lips part in the deadly silent room. “I don’t need you,” I whisper harshly.

“You are uncontrollable. You are indecisive, and so very stubborn. You don’t listen, you don’t feel the need to work with others. Rylee, you are simply un…curable, if you don’t allow me to help you,” the man in the navy blue suit intertwines his fingers, the notepad between his long, flawless arms. I smile— more like flashing teeth. “I don’t need your help nor pity.”

Going home, sitting in the car, and staring from the window. Sometimes I catch my reflection and blink away tears, pushing back my golden brown hair and sighing aloud. Sometimes she turns to check on me. I see that in the reflection too. I cast my eyes downward and watch the highway fly past.

“I don’t need your lifeless words,” I murmur to her, closing my eyes, “I don’t need to see the hurt in your eyes either. Drive. That’s where we’re going, right; to find another person to fix me, right?”

She doesn’t say anything.

Because she knows it’s true.

She’s looking in the same window.

Just a different view.