I bite because it’s all I’ve ever known.
To survive, I have to live with all the rage and anger within me. I don’t know how to be gentle — my teeth always crave flesh, like a monster; a beast waiting for its victim.
I didn’t know how to love without making them bleed. My love always leaves marks of my teeth.
I’ll understand if you leave. I apologize; it would have been so terrible to be loved by me.
After all, how could I offer gentle hands when all I knew were claws?
The world taught me to defend myself with teeth bared and a growl simmering in my chest. I wasn’t always this way. I’m still grieving for the person I’ve become. I didn’t want to be the monster they turned me into.
I am what I am because they trained me. I bottled up all this rage as a child, believing that if I didn’t raise my voice, I would remain invisible. If you don’t shout, you’re drowned out by the noise inside our house; if you don’t scream, they won’t hear you at all.
It was as if silence was a punishment, and only the loudest voice could demand their attention. All this rage is still within me, like a storm trapped behind a dam, waiting for the right moment to explode. Every outburst is a reminder of how close I am to becoming what I’ve always hated — the thing I promised I’d never become.
I’ve become too numb to the pain I always begged not to feel anymore. It’s so hard being raised in hate and fear — I’ve become a stranger to love.
I don’t know how to love.
I build a shield of thorns around myself, so that any hurt I inflict becomes a way to avoid the deeper cuts within. I caused them pain so that I wouldn’t feel it.
I’ll find a way to make them leave; I’ll sabotage every relationship when they start to experience something new — something I’ve never felt before. I don’t deserve it. I know, I don’t deserve it.
The need to destroy any connection that might introduce me to a different kind of love. The fear that I don’t deserve this warmth makes me push them away, ensuring I stay in the only place I’m familiar with, even if it means being alone.
I thought I only bit the people around me, but then I sank my teeth into my own flesh. I’ve bitten myself too.
I’m not a violent dog, but what if I am?
I’m scared. I don’t want to be like this forever. If only I could remove all my teeth, my claws, my raging eyes — strip away the parts of me that I never wanted to have.
Tell me, how much violence do I need to release to feel what gentleness is? How many layers of anger and hurt must I shed to be free?
“I wish we could’ve met as kids; you would’ve loved the softer me.”
