Anger

Anger. 

Anger is a thing I am not proud of.

Yet it happens, where I cannot control what I say or do.

The feeling of pain I get when a title is given to me, or words that should not have been spoken, arise. 

Agony twists and pulses deep inside, swelling like a whirlpool of emotion, my happiness sucked in under the tide.

And then the rage comes.

A feeling of pure hatred.

I must say, in the moment, it is hard to ignore.

You just want to scream out all the words you’ve been holding back.

But I bite my tongue.

How is there any other way to respond to the pain other than keeping silent?

Yelling, for one.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

No matter the amount of hatred I feel, I can’t lash out.

Because I know if I do, the harm from the words I speak is worse than the titles and actions of the ones who spoke to me.

So I’ll remain ever quiet.

I must.

And yet, it’s hard.

I am the type to hurt and cry in secret when no one's looking after a fight.

I rarely tell my emotions or how I feel. 

I’m not easily read. I’m more like a diary with a lock code than an open book.

But I know that one day, the chains that hold back my fury could break if one tries to hurt me.

They won’t succeed.

I won’t let people take advantage of my kindness.

I can promise you that.

So try.

But you’ll see I don't back down. 

You come with the horns, you'll get them right back.