There is a pocket in my heart that will always be the House of Anger.
I allow myself this.
It suits me better than self-pity.
It is almost poetic if it wasn’t so forlorn that it now stands for all the angers that I never experienced prior to her death.
This anger goes much deeper and is much wider than any anger I could ever have raised or imagined.
I don’t and won’t live in conjunction with this anger, but I feel the hea(r)t from its flame and I let it draw me close as some unexpected trigger sets off a chain reaction.
I am not ever going to attempt to put out this fire. It fuels me when my energy slips away.
It serves me well as a receptacle for my pain, and I need to know it is within my grasp forever and ever,