My anger never tasted like fire.
It is not smoke billowing up from my throat.
It is not a raging inferno inside my chest burning my reason away.

My anger tastes like winter.
Like icicles forming in my veins and fingers.
Forcing me to breathe harder, move faster
because if you are still you are not living.

But I can count the times I have wanted to live on my own two hands.
Incidentally, most of those times have been during the winter,
because in the winter I am cold enough that I can't differentiate between my anger,
and my normal state of being.

This year, we had no snow, and spring is slowly starting to creep back into the world,
and yet my fingers are cold, and I see my breath in the air
So I remain still.