my anger is acidic.

i am not always gentle.
nor do i always have softened skin.
sometimes diamond is softer than me
and so is your hard head.

when the sky rains fire
i am the first to fly.
in grief i can wail.
you don't have to hear me to know
that i am.

you'll see it in the way i breathe
the way i stare at your ignorance
at the pain i haven't even whispered to you about.
my anger can be a flaming torch
full of malice
that my tongue uses to whip others
spreading the wildfire of my agony.

if i don't bite my tongue
you will burn with me.
i will smile watching my fire thrive.
watching you burn at the stake
from where i have touched you and brought out sunburns.

i keep this anger inside of me
there only need be a fingerprint
on me
and my chest implodes.

i tear my fingernails off to distract myself from remembering
whatever has sparked my acidic cauldron into tipping over.

i beg the sun to scorch me
to remind me of what my fire can do.
but i only want to burn more.
more and more and more and more and more and more and more.

until my capacity is reached
and i have forgotten all that
has made me gentle.

so why do you touch me still.
why do you touch me.

is it love
that binds you here.

am i worth
the stormy days
and acid rain.

your touch is a warmth
that doesn't burn.
but you will disintegrate with me
if you hold onto the acid
that's leaking from my mouth.