and my knuckles hurt
from the punching bag
but i know i won't strike first
i know that anger makes me irrational
but i have tamed it, honed it
into a chilled knife:
sharp Stainless Steel.
my words are
more dangerous than any punch
i could throw
my dear
enraged and enflamed,
i can control my feelings to a dull throb
and grip the steering wheel
until my knuckles are white.
i am warm to the touch
to the point where my mother would
have felt my forehead and said
"stay home from school".
i can't bring myself to
hurt anyone until i am wounded -
but when i am struck,
i lash back with my disastrous tongue
pounding their pride into pulp
swinging wildly at their solutions
tearing their tries to calm me
until there rests nothing but debris.
