It corrodes my veins while flowing through me,
This thing they call violent rage.

It's so simple you would think
How something I can't see controls me.

Anger controls my reaction to many things, even some just so simple that would make someone giggle in utter disbelief over how trivial something is.

I feel white hot anger coarsing though my finger tips;

I feel release when I punch holes in doors with my elbow that leaves a gnarly bruise up the back of my arm, which was beautiful and the pain was exsquite, almost orgasmic.

I laugh maniacally as I throw things at someone who's made me angry. Breaking a plate or a mug is safer than me clawing up your face.

Anger is my dirty mistress, and I can't leave her. I think I love her.

Please subscribe to keep reading.