Fury

Anger is an excuse to not talk about emotions.

A butterfly glares out at the garden with its wings torn

from the wind and what the wind carries.

Anger consumes them,

wetting the skin as more and more cells

slip into its mouth.

What are you feeling right now?

If we could enact magic,

scratch something in us to unzip the unthinkable,

I would be a blaze

burning on the grass blades,

thinks the butterfly,

watching the bees pelt past as they pollinate.

But they are still on the ground,

festering,

burning the grass with its shadow,

unable to move

weighed down by the emotions

stuffed down by its

anger.