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Rage is the soul cast by pain that never learned to speak for every clenched fist was once an open hand. - Poet
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I woke with blood in my mouth and no memory of the scab that sealed the rasure. I’m cat-spitting dog-growling peregrine-divebombing rooster-flogging badger-flipping hornet-stinging wolverine-ripping mad. I fired the sun for showing up late cursed the fridge light until yogurt soured in terror. God called I let it ring twice. The therapist said breathe so I swallowed my tongue now I speak in the language of things with canines. coyote-howl syntax vulture-vowel decay the guttural grammar of vertebrae picked clean in a fox-den. Even the dog forgets how to wag around me. I tore my anger management book in half made paper fangs bit myself felt nothing but pulp and fury. I’m honey-badger-flipping-trashcans mad rip-the-wires-from-the-wall bite-the-mailman howl-at-the-blender mad. I hiss like a cobra in traffic snort like a bull in a china shop with barbed wire tangled on its horns. Snarl like a raccoon in a dumpster brawl— with nothing to lose and rabies to prove. I pricked the rusted prongs of the old pitchfork cold as polar nights and sharper than razors a blister popped now filled with barnyard muck. I opened a drawer found my childhood screaming— it wouldn’t stop, so I closed it. Then madness steps in tempts like belladonna disguised as balm. Come closer it’s not so bad licks the lesion with acid lingua a serpent’s hiss spewing rancor. and for a moment I almost believe the lie. But — feathers torn from my own pillow claw their way through the thick still air fury scratching at festering feasting fleas ripping drywall with claws I never knew I had nesting in the dark where rage was born. I swat at mosquitoes like rent collectors kick the couch like a mule call it catharsis as if drywall gives a damn. laugh because if you don’t madness might devour you whole. The mirror cowers I punch it mid-sentence carve NO in the fog with a cracked fingernail laugh like a rabid dog with no leash wild and untamed in a dead desert street. I’m not okay. I’m silk-rope-around-the-wrists-singing-a-lullaby mad don’t-make-eye-contact mad yellow-jackets-in-a-mailbox mad forgot the prenups mad. I’m the kind of mad that hands you a thimble and says Dig. I cracked the drawer again the screams were louder— drowning out the child I slammed it shut.— ——— “I think the fire’s out now— but the smoke still screams.” The therapist sits— stunned, afraid to speak. I lean forward, Smile split like a jackal’s grin, fresh from the kill, say, “Do you want to hear what the rage said back?” Then I reach into my pocket, pull out the thimble, place it gently on the table— still warm.
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