Rage is roaring like a fire out of control.
It starts small — a flicker, a tremor in my chest — then suddenly it’s everywhere. Burning through reason, devouring silence, leaving only ash behind.
I don’t even know what I’m angry at half the time. Maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s myself. The way I keep trying to hold it all together when I know damn well I’m unraveling.
There’s a part of me that wants to scream until my voice gives out. To throw something, to break something, just to prove I still exist — that there’s something alive inside me after all the numbness.
But I don’t. I swallow it. I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod when people talk. I hide the fire and let it burn me from the inside out.
Sometimes I think rage is just grief wearing armor — a way to feel powerful when all I really feel is broken.
Through the Fog 