“Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame. “

Benjamin Franklin

I stomp my foot and I am an angry child. Why, why, why? I throw something to watch it break, but I get more frustrated because it does not. I cannot clear the rage from my head; it is singeing the tips of my fingers and lighting my hair on fire from the root. I scratch and scratch, desperately and with fervor, at every inch of my blazing skin to make it stop. I hate to feel this feeling. I hate myself for feeling it. It lived in me as a seed, exiting my body only to return a fully fleshed beast that I can no longer quell. This feeling is not a part of me because it cannot be; I am sweet, and simple, and filled with nectar. I cannot make poison. But it stands in my mirror wearing my face and twisting my words, and I cannot deny that I recognize her. Can I hurt her without hurting me? She is me, but I am not her. Can I cut her from me like a tumor, snip her as a rotting leaf from my vine? Anything? Is there anything?