I had a dream last night in which I met my anger. For once
it wasn’t a part of me. Wrath stood in front of me in a billowing, rolling,
burning cloud of hate. I told anger to leave me alone and rage set me on fire.
My veins were filled with smoke and I burned burned burned until I was ash and
embers and smoke.
When I woke up I could still feel the hate inside my skin. I
needed it out. I couldn’t stand it. I tried to cut it out. I tried until I was
a quivering mess curled in the bottom of the shower.
I can still feel it inside me.
It's been there since I died.
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