red.

i do not know what to do with anger.

i wear anger like a crown of defeat and the defeat is always liquid. 

i drown in my anger, I refuse to rise above it.

i am neither threatened nor threatening because of anger.

i am consumed but subsumed by it.

i am one for quiet rage.

i do not know how to wield my anger: it becomes not a weapon, not a shield. it is more like a shell, a bunker [to keep this wartime line of thinking], a place to lose and find myself lost.

it protects me from nothing.

anger is always heavy.

think of dusty velvet robes. think of a soaked towel. the image is always that of surrender. Powerless power.

i bottle up my anger in fragile glass jars.

and then i hurl them towards the wall of my consciousness, again and again..