Rage

There is a rage in me. A quiet rage tearing me up inside. It is well hidden, I am a master of disguise. My face frozen with the same blank expression and empty eyes. The windows to the soul shut tightly so that no light comes in. There is a rage in me and it is cold.
To the people around me I am just the odd and silent fat girl lurking with her head stuck in a book. Reading... writing... daydreaming... thinking... hoping. But there is a rage in me that blinds me to all manner of beauty. This monster inside takes over and there is nothing left but loneliness and rage. The music is silenced by all the different loud voices in my head that drive me insane. The one monster is broken down into all sorts of different self-deprecating voices. Voices that drown me in melancholy. But sometimes the rage inside breeds chaos, a violent storm ends in tears forcing open the windows I had shut to keep in the rage.
There is a sadness in this place inside of me. It is an empty space that I tried filling many times with love or the idea of it. I tried filling it with friendship but people let me down. The space is empty because rage doesn't fill it. This rage in me destroys the once beautiful warm place ready for love. Now it's just cold and empty. Destroyed. In ruins. Scorched. The rage in me set fire to it. The melancholy put that fire out. This place within is  abandoned and the rage in me has gone cold.