I run rabid through the city, past the texting drivers and old candy wrappers, the wealthy elderly and underfed youth, smokestacks pumping, wondering what's wrong with me.

Sometimes I get so...angry. One drop of ire heads my way, and it falls into a vast body of water, waiting to be disturbed. It's so still, it begs to be disturbed. When it hits, it ripples out and out and out, onward, until I hate the whole goddamn world because of that one thing.

An hour passes and I'm in love with it again. It's a feeling akin to ripping off old skin. I don't know what to do with myself sometimes, other than tear my skin off. Sometimes that's the only thing that works when I don't feel like being anywhere. I don't feel like I belong anywhere right now, or that I even want to belong anywhere, but I'm here anyway. I have no idea what I want.

I think everyone feels this way from time to time. I hope so, anyway. For how alone I always want to be, I wouldn't mind someone telling me they've felt this before, even if I already know it's true. A voice would be better than my thoughts alone.

I do sometimes get what I ask for, and that's when I tend to learn a thing or two about what I asked for. I should remember that.