Bottled inside. 

Sometimes I’d like to scream. Really loud and shake my head. And jump up and come down hard enough to make the floor shake. Being nice hurts sometimes. And so does sacrifice. I run when I can to relieve the tension, and let it all escape through my sweat. But I can feel it now, the tightness in my jaw, the pace of the tap in my foot. If someone were to argue with me now, there may be violence. I don’t enjoy the feeling, like the lid is on, twisted tight. 

  

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