This sort of anger is new. Like fresh blood, something

I don’t fully want to wipe away. I’m checking for cuts,

And hoping for scars- long, dark, thin ones that shine

Through my clothes. I always knew I had a flaming

Temper. And if I just sit quiet, it only simmers. I’m thinking

Golden onion rings that don’t go away. Fried garlic

That sticks to the pan. Anger, you know, has

A bitter aftertaste.