Anger

Anger

My friend tipped me over the edge, made my mind fall past the ledge, used words that demeaned, expression that exuded mean, so when my anger reached its climax, I said fuck you, blood running through my arms, my fists ready to harm, my mind screams alarms, my face starts to scrunch and my legs begin to bunch, my body bout ready to punch.

But when I looked up, I saw my reflection in the glass, my face turnt up, my mind burnt up, my mouth on the verge of violence, I recognized this person, this evil, I look just like my daddy, and his daddy, so when my anger boiled I turned the stove off before it bubbled, because I saw myself in the glass, and decided not to throw stone, and I looked just like the face of abhorrence, I looked like the creature I grew up living in fear, because I was anger.

I knew this all too well, from that therapist office where I lied and said things were swell, to the playground when my masculinity was challenged my mind couldn’t seem to balance, when they called me a homo, my body began to rush, my blood almost seemed to gush, my mouth couldn’t shush, I said, “nigga you don’t know me”, my anger felt like fire that spread, across my forest it sped, like a California breeze, it swept over my body and corrupted my tree, turned my branches to ashes, like a violent killing spree, my blood rushed.

I was exactly what expected to be, black, violent, and angry, the image of dark red, the horrors of blood shed, I was exactly what was expected to be, a black, violent, non functioning member of society. When I entered the foster care system I was just a number in a deep void of struggle, I was the status quo for black, emotional control that lacked, chains that snapped, to make sure I stayed near. This sweeping shock that flows through my soul, the uncontrolled feeling of heat, so when I ran into the bathroom, I glanced into the mirror, I recognized the look that leered, I looked just like my daddy, and his daddy and the Black men that proceeded, I was anger.

I grew up living in the shadow of a figure of masculinity, the epitome of everything Black, from the belt, to the shoe, to the smoke that blew, from the tip of a Newport, this enigma spread, ran straight to my head, like a campsite my body began growing in temperature, every time someone questioned my authority, an illusion of power that proceeded my tower, a peak of anger that headlined the hour; coward.

I was what had been, my disposition covered in sin, the shadow had covered the unfilled parts of my soul, and corruption its goal, filling my holes, protruding out as stiff as a metal pole, what I hated, I was.

Mysterious bouts of anger, misguided sheets of rage, the storybook and my page, had been filled with intentions of shameful reign, sinful pain. My friend tipped me over the edge today, instead of calmness I had become anger.