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Arrogance was a way of life for me. The sneer was in every word spit out to those girls I called friends. Calling them on their mistakes. Letting them know I knew the answer. It was right there. On my lips. The ones I would later paint dark with lipstick stolen from that upclass store with the rude ladies. The ones who continuously looked as if something smelled bad. Perhaps it was me.

I knew everything. Books were mangled in read after read, stained with ink and the juice from pomegranates. Bloody purple smears that were markers in my life. Teacher's pet for the third year in the row. Trying for the red ink A and comment that would make that self-satisfied little worm puff up with pride. My pride. The one that would march by on stiff kneed legs, sneer intact.

Writing paper after paper, scribbling words between the lines, essays in close print. Before every home had a computer humming. Stealing words and hoarding them in my mind, waiting for the perfect opportunity to use them with ease.

Using overlarge words that cost ten dollars a syllable, hidden smirk at the confusion. What does that mean? Casually dropping hints into conversations choreographed at home, in the dark, listening to music on vinyl’s that scratched and hissed long into the night.

Discovered Pink Floyd, taken up from my father's collection. Listened to the tapes, ear pressed to the speakers. Tear down the wall. Listened night after night until the words had pinned themselves into a special lyrics sheet in my mind. It was a shame that my mother hated the band. Fury underlined every motion while it played in the background. Are there any queers in the theater tonight? Get them up against the wall

Pride tore piece by piece. A paper that was transparent, wet with spit. That old arrogance fell away, leaving me shy and stumbling and so very angry. That catty anger that I would get drunk on, smelling sour and slurring my words. It twisted in my stomach. Person after person was gutted, rag dolls with no stuffing. Only wet blood twisting out from beneath bodies.

I forgot myself, pausing midlife. Crisis. Grades in the sink, the drain making a wet sucking sound. Razorblades hidden in my shoes. Waiting for the perfect moment. That bloody swipe up the arm. Up the road and not down the street. Yes.

Hate on the tip of my tongue, balancing itself. Tasting old and bitter. Like coffee made a week ago, oily and oh-so-horrible. I dreamed of cuts on my arms, sane perfect moment with no regrets.

Made the first cut and never looked back. Only went into that good night while the fog curled like a cat around my feet. The blood dripping off fingertips, making a soft pattering sound like rain.

I like rain.