Amazon, you win again. I was browsing in the addictive app in search of absolutely everything and nothing tonight and came across different categories with a list of gift-giving ideas. Man, Woman, Teen, Kids. I don’t know why, but I clicked on the teen category. In retrospect, I think it matched me better than any of the other categories and I don’t think I should be proud of that fact. The unicorn snot was seriously almost added to my cart.
As I was scrolling, I came across a book for teens about mindfulness. It was for beginners and caught my attention. Everyone has been telling me to practice mindfulness (as if I’m not in my mind enough). So I checked it out. Select pages were provided as examples. I read them.
One of the pages suggested that I talk to my anger. The instructions said to talk to my anger, accept it, invite it in and try to understand it. Let’s be clear. I understand my anger just fine, thank you. My husband was a jerk for nearly 11 years and for approximately one or two (or more) of those years cheated on me. He left me with a kid (among other things) and is now spending his time getting high and eating fancy dinners with the whore that he cheated on me with. So with all due respect, I am very familiar with my anger.
But it got me to thinking, and it made me want to write a letter to my anger. It sounds so stupid, but I couldn’t stop writing that letter in my head. It became a broken poem as the words fell out of my heart and onto the pages.
You can be my calm, but are more often my storm.
Sometimes you overstep your boundaries,
But then again sometimes I overstep mine.
You are dangerous, because if I let you stay for too long,
my identity will end where yours begins.
You are my protector, enforcer of what is right and true,
but sometimes you can be wrong.
I sometimes make love to you,
I sometimes make love because of you,
I sometimes make love for you.
It is hard to fall asleep with you,
worse to wake up with you,
and impossible to be happy with you.
It is good when I run to you,
better when I run with you,
and best when I run past you.
Your love song is a chant, a solid beating drum,
full, strong, ready and willing.
You are a bespoke admirer that I created by myself, for myself.
You are my mortar, of both masonry and weaponry.
You are my beloved anger.