Rage

I rage.

I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe.

I bring to bear every weapon against it: I slash at it with knives and trigger vast cascading chains of atomic bombs.

This is the quantity of my rage. This is the quantity of my multitudinous arms as I beat at the universe and the sound of my innumerable mouths as I scream at it.

I am blood-soaked: freshly-birthed; freshly wounded.

I am wild-eyed and frenzied, I am so angry.

And we collide, again and again, me and the universe, the universe and me. We are soaked in each other, each wound I inflict on the universe I also inflict on myself.

The pain only makes me more wild and, still, I rage.

I rage.

I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe until I break; I come apart.

And yet even disembodied, still.

How do I rage with no hands to strike with? How do I rage when I have no mouth with which to scream?

I am the universe against which I rage and so, once again, I berate myself into existence.

Punching, slashing, exploding, my rage is infinite.