Anger

There is anger and there is anger.

The anger that pours out of your ears and slams into the wall, tearing and slashing itself till it sinks itself into its own morass. The anger that breaks your wrist against the cupboard and burns your face like fire. The anger that lets you breathe even when you're choking under fifty feet of water.

The anger that tears up your stomach like a swallowed acid. The anger that courses through your veins and throbs inside your head till you implode, scattering pieces of glass within you till you bleed and you can't stop because you want it to hurt more and more, for longer still.

Anger is a broken doll, a torn page, a burnt fist, a slashed neck, a soul pulped to a bloody mess.

Anger is a wine glass shattered against the wall.