A-N-G-E-R by Saumya Lakshman

A-N-G-E-R

Saumya Lakshman

I break and destroy, I bleed and shatter; growing inside fists, settling between eyebrows, pushing through boundaries, searing through space; breaking free of shackles of strained refinement.

I'm always noticed, but never observed, always questioned, but never answered; always hushed up, but never quietened. They know to fear me, but fear to know me. They wish for me to go away, but never question whence I sprung.

Hadn't you once built a castle in the air, and abandoned it for the fear of society? I am the ghost that now haunts that castle. Hadn't you once torn your dream to bits, and thrown it into the sacrificial fire? I am the ashes that now lingers on the hearth. Have you even once traced my family tree, to track my ill-fated ancestry? I'm a wolf displaced from my natural habitat, that howls and whines and grunts away in the city that now stands in its former dwelling place. I'm the parent of destruction and oppression. I'm anger, the neglected child of fear and suppression.