Blind Rage

Rage has terrible depth perception.
No one tells you that.

People warn you that revenge consumes, corrodes, hollows you out, but they never mention the way it distorts distance, how it makes every slight feel inches from your throat. How it turns a bruise into a mortal wound, a mistake into a declaration of war.

I didn’t set out to destroy him.

I wasn’t even angry at first.
Just… inconvenienced.
Annoyed.

Like he had stepped somewhere he shouldn’t, into a place inside me he never earned the right to see.

So, I pulled.
I tugged at the loose thread he left exposed.
A rumor here.
A suggestion there.
Just enough pressure to make him wobble.

I didn’t push.
Not really.

I simply removed the guardrails.
And rage, my rage, did the rest.

Funny thing is, you don’t feel yourself crossing lines.
You just feel the rightness of the burn.

The clarity.

The heat so precise it could cauterize a conscience.
By the time I realized I had gone too far, there was no one left to confess to.

Not that confession ever mattered, atonement requires regret, and regret requires doubt.

I don’t doubt what I did.
I only doubt that I needed to stop where I did.

That’s the real horror of it: you think revenge will end once you’ve taken enough from someone.

But rage doesn’t know “enough.”
It only knows all of it.

And once you see the world through that lens, once the blindness settles in, you stop caring who stands in front of you.

You will hit them anyway.
Because all you see is the shape of the original sin.

And every silhouette becomes a target when you’ve forgotten how to see the difference.