A reminder to speak up on time and not lash out 23 years later.

Maybe anger is just pain

dressed officiously but quite naked inside.

Or it’s hurt hardening, well-preserved

within an old, arctic temper.

Or it is “12 parts tender indignation

coated by thick, fat, flakes of bitterness.”

Because someone pricked my rage that day

and embarrassingly enough

softness spilled out

in a flood of tears

until my sharp words wobbled,

insects spluttered out from somewhere dark, moist and pungent,

and my red gaze blurred into a pink and powerless thing

telling me that every outburst of fury

is an old bruise that never healed.