Ethrane

Anger for me is hot tears that betray me as they fall, eyes swollen, head pounding in an iron vice. Anger for me is hurt and pain and regret, waking up to find scars on my hands and the wisp of a nightmare.

So I cannot be angry. I am sad, or I am nothing, and I remember no happiness in my childhood save for brief moments watching my sister laugh as I tickled her. But that was my sister’s happiness.

And now it is just me, and sadness, and the flashes of joy in speaking to loyal friends, and the smiles of strangers. Being whirled around to music, the taste of delectable orange fruits. A girl that I coax into laughing, and laughing, and laughing.