Smash

I want to wrap my fingers tight

around the taped handle of a metal bat,

feel my sweat slicked palms pulse in time

to a raging heart as my back muscles pull

and my shoulders crackle with the force

of my bat colliding with forgotten glass bottles.

I want to see the bottles fold into themselves

and the jars blow up like landmines as the shattering rings

like broken little bells in my ears

while the glass flies around me like jagged little fireflies

glittering under the pounding rays of the sun.

I want to hear the glass crunch beneath my beat up boots

as I stalk across the yard to the rusted shell of a car

before I break into a run; raising the old bat like a great sword

as I charge with a scream rising out of me like a Wednesday tornado siren,

starting low from the depths of my burning belly only to grow

louder as it rises into a roar of a savage warrior, drowning my ears

in a voice bigger and stronger than my whole being.

I want to smell the mildewy musk of the old patterned seats

as my weapon breaks open the cracked windshield or

the sweet dusty metallic smell of oiled machinery

as I beat the rusty hood like a cheated woman

from a Carrie Underwood song, watching the metal bend

and flake off like oxidized scabs as my bat bites into the metal.

I want to taste the bittersweet blood

dripping out of my nose from my aggressive exertion

as it drips to the trash covered ground

and stains the front of my dusty shirt,

but I won't notice because I'll be glaring into the sky

when it's on fire and feel the burning of new calluses

forming on my soft palms, scratched up and swollen

as the beast behind my hissing teeth is finally soothed.