All The Rage


She was all the rage.

I knew when we met

she was my hidden rage.

She told me.

I had to wait for a year to watch it unfold.

I didn’t know how to argue, being an only child

of noninterventionist parents. So

when she exploded I’d walk

out of the door and almost immediately

start calculating how long of an absence

would make it “look good”.

My silence

Infuriated her, so I learned to use it,

triumphantly.

But over time I learned

the dance of anger,

learned how to

dig to the gut

with stilletoed words,

fillet the righteousness out of her,

pick the scabs off

of buried pasts

and have those sores run

and slough us into the morrow.

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