sharkcuddles

I hold onto anything that leaves a mark.

rings that coat my fingers in green

doodles in blue ink on my arm

I hope for my injuries to form scars

just to prove their existence.

scratching bug bites until they scab

My anger sits just below my sixth rib.

Nestled next to my heart, 

the rage has easy access to my bloodstream.

My anger utilizes that location well.

It spreads like a lit match dropped in kerosene.