They warn you not to go to bed angry,
but I've found it usually works:
time and sleep and silence cure my ailments.
But this morning I opened my eyes
with my fists still clenched and my heart still compressed
and ugly inside things
clawing at my rib cage
and climbing my throat,
trying to push themselves out of my mouth and,
finding my jaw unwilling to loosen,
they settle for second best and burn my tongue.
I sit boiling, rigid, and hell-bent on containment,
and finally see why you tell me
anger is a wasted emotion.
