Sometimes...I write stuff...

He held on to it, all of it, all of those words: the words from the people who said he was nothing. He didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He didn’t punch their smug little faces, or even a wall. He took the anger, that sticky heat, and let it coat his heart in sugary drips until it crystalized around it. He was cold, hard, and brittle. It was funny; funny how something so sickly sweet could make someone so bitter.