Anger: My Lover And Yours.

Her touch leaves my forehead warm
Her laugh corrodes the depths of me-
Beauty that the world would rather destroy
But she’d rather it be.
Her shy smile leaves most silent
Her blush creeps up my throat
Her words, scathe with beauty they-
At times, her voice a scary, shrill note.

She is fickle, never meant to stay or to be mine
For as the night leaves so does she
And I cry for the hours we spent together
O anger, why do you so love me.

The sheets felt soft against my skin and the evening light against the sheer dust that lay lifeless along its silence like a long-lost promise, as one I had broken- the day had brought itself to a tired halt, and a warm one- not a good warmth, but rage that pulsated through me earlier at another and then, at myself, for allowing myself to lose my temper when I had promised myself not to. But as I stroked the dust off the glass allowing myself a clear look at the world that lay beyond it, I ceased thought, cooing at the anger that sat inside me, wounded, and as I stared, outside me, too- as beauty in its truest form.

A hawker was fighting with a customer who had been bargaining for an exhausting quarter of an hour over a batch of oranges that he found particularly pleasant, yet not enough to pay the worth for. Their faces were twisted in thought, debate and argument, each eager and animated.

The customer loved his money- it lay clutched in his fingers in fear, and the hawker loved his possessions, which lay clutched in his own fear, too. They feared not violence, they feared not pain- they feared being hurt. One always does. Whether it be one’s dignity, feelings, memories or oneself, anger is a fickle friend, roaming away, throwing abuses at one, backing one’s enemies, yet, when it is one being hurt she shows up for them as well. Quite a snake she is, with the mesmerising patterns of nature etched upon her, yet venomous and dual. Her beauty appalls and awes me.

Anger is an emotion truly unlike another, and more than an emotion, I believe it is a part of oneself that the body often refuses to destroy. Not all can adopt love, not all can adopt humanity and kindness but anger bewitches the mind and soul- the strange thing is, it bewitches it in such a manner that it does not leave us loving her, but loving ourselves.

Think about it. You do love your anger. But more so,
Your anger loves you.

A/N: Jai Sri Hari! I genuinely apologise for the low quality of this post of mine. It’s been a truly long time since my fingers have danced upon and to the familiarity of the keyboard- something I’m not quite used to now. 10th grade has been and still is taking a toll on my time, so I cannot make those promises of posting and commenting regularly anymore, as much as I really, really wish to- I really miss my Osdotme family. I do. But, please know, I hold in my heart for each one of you immense, immense, immense love and gratitude- for your presence, time and support, and just you yourself too- you are more beautiful than anger herself 🙃.

Which reminds me, this is merely my take on anger- a tool of nature that’s not necessarily wrong or with wrong intentions, just misused and misunderstood. I may not necessarily be right- scratch that, probably not. That’s why, I would love to know- what’s your POV? 

That being said, I can’t thank you enough for showing up here. Genuinely. It means so much to me. I sincerely hope you take good care of yourselves, I love you all to the next universe’s black hole and back. Jai Sri Hari!