Convulsing Soul

I feel the sour on my tongue. I bite down.

One.

Two.

Three.

My vision is red and my soul is a convulsing mass of sour.

Why in anger do we want to fight?

Or run?

What if there when we were angry we sat to write.

To think.

My fists clench so much that I feel my veins against my bones.

One

Two

Three

Why is it that when we are angry reality leaves us?

That vision leaves us.

And smell.

And sense.

Why when we are angry does everything which could help us fight leave us?

Were we truly meant to fight?

And why do we fight with our fists?

When words hurt so much more.

Why do we want to hurt when we are angry?

Why don’t we want to heal.

To solve.

One

Two

Three

The red is fading.

Words muffle pain.

My hands are sore from writing now and not from fighting.

And I understand her pain now, the one who hurt me, and I am not angry anymore.

I am only sad.

For her.

Because she still does not understand why she is angry.