infuriating

"Anger is secondary," I've been told. "Don't fight the smoke, fight the fire."
So, what is the fire? The fire is this: I'm hurt. My parents ripped off all my skin, and now everything, everything hurts me. Whatever else happens, the message engraved in my mental permanent record is this: No one loves you enough to step in and protect you. You are on your own, as you deserve to be.
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*blank stare*
*tick, tick, tick, tick*
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So, God. Are you really just going to stand by and let me think these awful things? Don't you have anything to say? What good are you to me, if you couldn't save me from this? What good am I to you, if I couldn't be saved?
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*tick, tick, tick*
*commence violent sobbing*
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Don't you dare try to tell me I'm pretty right now; don't you tell me I'm more beautiful this way than I've ever been. Don't tell me I'm the same inside as the day I was born, that nothing about me is changed. Everything is changed! Everything. Don't call me avari, or acorn. That is way too mushy-sweet.

I feel like you're just messing with me, pushing my buttons on purpose, saying all the things I don't believe. If this is all you have to offer, I'm not sure I want anything more to do with you.
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*sudden, slightly hysterical, quickly muffled laughter*
*deep sigh*
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Do you find my human bravado tiresome, or charming? Ugh, I'm leaning toward charming... Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn. I want to be bigger, scarier than I am. I want to push you around. I want to yell at you and have you be cowed, instead of understanding me completely. Instead of calming me like a two-year-old having a tantrum, or crying over me while I cry myself out.

Yes; I know you know. That's why I'm so mad.
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*tick, tick, tick, tick, tick*
*turn out the light*