Dear anger,
I think I care about you
deeply.
And I can think,
when you do not
bestow yourself
on me.
And feel,
when you embrace
too tight
and try to squeeze
the life out of me.
But most importantly,
I care,
when storm has passed
and you are wounded -
just like me.
Your hands
are dirty.
Reeking of despair.
I care,
because then
you are,
my dear,
beloved child
that I was given.
Was forced to take.
And every single time
I hold you
I have to shatter,
break.