I don't do anger (this is not a lie.)
Don't do rage, or fury.
Just sad. Just broken. Just hurt.

Because how can you feel anger,
when you are too empathetic
for your own **** good?
When understanding comes
before fury ever has a chance to?

Apparently, you let yourself shout
at the stars,
surrounded by a crowd
who muffles your volume
with their own,
and doesn't care about you
in the slightest,
encouraged along
by the hand
holding tight
to your own.

Apparently, you let yourself feel
everything you can:
the hurt
the terror
the loneliness
the overwhelming sense
and hollowing out of it all

And you let your tears run free
And have your voice follow.

There is nothing beautiful about it;
suppressed emotions forcing their way out in stutters and run-on sentences alike, the cadence of it all jumping through octaves, shrill and not enough air to low and soft and quiet, heartbeat too fast and too slow all at once, scared to death of confessing too much yet relieved, all at the same time.

There is nothing beautiful about it,
but it looks like and sounds like and feels like anger.

Like fury.
Like rage.

It feels directed at everything more so than anything specific, but more than that - it feels like something.

*Like being alive again.