I am not angry

A poem for those who perhaps should be

I am not angry.

My blood does not boil,
wildfire coursing my veins,
curling my fingers – unbidden – 
into fists 
trembling for retribution.

I am not angry.

I do not rage and roar,
the latch of my voicebox
rusted shut – 
screams silenced,
clawing at the edges of my throat as it tightens,
walls closing in,
and down.

I am not angry.

My eyes do not gush
hot tears searing tracks
down my cheeks

I am not angry.

I do not wish you dead.
I do not wish you hurt.
I do not long for the wounds you caused to return threefold to your soul,
in the night,
in the dark,
grabbing at your heart,
convulsing,
shaking your conscience awake to the devastation you trail behind you.

I am not angry.

Rage does not consume me.

It lurks in my chest,
rock-hard below the ribs on my right side
pushing at my organs, up into my ribcage.

It does not release, but tightens
twisting, tendrils knotting
further up my spine,
between my ribs,
round my lungs,
constricting breath,
it wires shut my jaw,
bites down on my tongue
til the edges bleed.

crushes my skull,
compresses my neck
into my shoulder
one thick, solid block of muscle and tendon 
and blood and flesh 
and self-hatred.

I am not angry,
I do not wish you ill.

But sometimes

I wish 

I did.

Music on audio from #Uppbeat: https://uppbeat.io/t/fe77a/vacation-collective
https://uppbeat.io/t/david-bullard/broken
License code: GKDYVRVEQHDCWAFA