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Strange Moods

by Joanne Marisa Leow
My longing for you
is like a small sharp rock
piercing my consciousness
lodged in my throat.

It is a bitter taste in my mouth
and an aching of my ribs.

I want to tuck my knees
under my chin
and curl up into a tiny ball
no bigger
than the size of my clenched fist.

For I feel a strange violence
welling up inside of me,
a blinding rage
seething, restrained
but ready to lash out,
to tear people apart;
slamming its fists into faces
and crashing its weight into walls.



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