Anger was an assault. It fermented, swelled in the spaces between our ribs, pressed up on our lungs until there was no room for breath. When it burst, it blistered, and the cracks stencilled the brittle skin like veins, like thirsty earth. I paid attention for the signs of it coming, but knowing the color of the sky before a storm does not stop the lightning strike.

Anger was a teacher. I learned to be small and quiet above all else: above passionate, above happy, above angry. That words hold power: of transformation, of multitudes, of fine-blade precision and shadow-large vagueness. That a voice can say nothing, and that silence can speak.

Anger was a failing.
Anger was predictable.
Anger was a force of nature.
Anger was my fault. Anger was a reason. It was something I could make, apparently, though I did not see how I could control who carried it and when it burst. Trying to grasp control seemed only to make it worse - more fault, more reason. It was why everything. Every pain, every blow, every disappointment, every hardship. I brought it on myself. I deserved it.

Anger was a liar.

Anger is a guide. I follow its outstretched arm, let it sharpen my vision. I let it align my insides (breath to heart to gut to mind). It brings us into tune, into harmony.

Anger is energy.
Anger is a gift. I run my hands over its edges and let blood flow into my limbs, let my shoulders down, let my legs soften. Like the sun, it warms; it readies. My scars are gilded, gleaming.

​