There's something thrilling about the breaking
When the glass shatters and the shards scatter
There's the bruising on my knuckles, mottled green and purple
Blood flowing out of the rips and tears with each blow
The sweet stinging strikes
There's a beauty in burning wood
Cracking, crumbling, snapping as the flames rise higher
There's something wonderful about the breaking
In that moment when I do what I can't take back
A broken bottle, a burning chair, my torn and tattered fists
And when it's done
I can pretend that I don't enjoy it