anger eats at my skin. it nibbles and claws, wraps its filthy hands around my neck. i suffocate. i try to calm it down, feed it something. maybe it's a blood pressure thing?

it's not. it's not. it's not. it's not.

it's the one thing i can't say. i can't tell the one i need to tell the most. it's the bile, crawling up my throat. it's the way i gag, desperate not to let this slip from me.

it's the way i hate to sing. was that for you? or was my voice only for me?

it's in the way i need to write. otherwise i feel the words bubble up, like hot tar. to let you hear these words.... is to give you away.

no. it’s not a blood pressure thing. this anger is part of me. no matter how much i wish to tear it away from me. rip it right from my body. treat it as the clingy monster it really is.