They say forgiveness is a virtue,
but I’d rather keep my rage.
I’d rather let it smolder under my skin,
slowly becoming a beast.

Your words only feed it,
sharp and bitter,
slicing deeper,
fueling the blaze.
No mercy.

I can feel the burn,
and the needles sinking in,
reminding me of this madness,
reminding me why I stay here.
But I’d rather be this—
a monster
than the other side of me.

The side that aches with love.
How I trace every freckle on your face,
wondering how the sun
chose you to carry her light.

Why not me?
Why can’t I be the one
with the freckles
and the freedom to feel?

So I will let this anger swallow me whole.
Yes,
that’s what I’ll do.