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.