Anger has rarely been part of my soul. I know not what it looks like within, unless you count the things I’ve seen. I know not how the fire feels, except from burns that never heal. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, I escaped the fiery trait within; but I am more than familiar with the consumption of lives, hearts and souls engulfed within its flames.

I know anger as an observer. I know it as a receiver. And I know anger as someone who held its hand with love, hoping it would subside. Talking it down, giving it space, hoping for clarity and peace to return; as moments of blindness and rage increasingly become the norm. At some point though, hope begins to wane. And burns too powerful to ignore, must give way to the pain . . . the pain of letting go.

And as one subsides and the other remain, and the only thing left is the fire; the only one flaming it higher and higher . . . is you, and only you.