Anger Did Not Become Her. Until It Did.

Anger did not become him.* Until it did. 
He wore it on his frame, around his eyes. 
When it got heavy, he tightened the straps. 
Choosing to haul it all of his days. 
Crushing his ossified soul.
Replacing his would-be words, his capacity for compassion.  
To set it down would have created a vast open place. 
Which, in his mind, was too unsettling.
And not to script, for it was a lifelong sentence.    
If only ... he'd seen a way.
To set it down. 
Making room. 
For light. 
​For self. 
For love.  









*or her. Composite. No one in particular.