|"She was not fragile like a flower; she was fragile like a bomb." - Poetry at Most|
I like to tell myself I’m slow to anger but that’s an inaccurate statement. The truth is I’m quick to anger, storing that emotion in the deepest of crevices, thinking it’ll somehow disintegrate like compost and recyclables.
Perhaps those feelings take the same amount of time to break down because they sit and pollute my temple for years with their stench.
I oftentimes maintain this toxic internal dialogue, acting and sounding out what I coulda-shoulda done and said. I realize it becomes a continual process because there’s no outlet. There’s no meaningful discussion, no resolution, no apology, no release, no forgiveness. There’s no one to receive my wrath or rather I tend to not unleash it on the appropriate parties because I hoard it. All of it. I allow it to fester until I’m unable to stuff another emotion and then I explode.