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My anger is the stranger I’m scared to know but always see.
She’s invited to the table but doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t eat.
They say if you let her speak, the walls will shake and the house
   will come crashing down,
crushing everyone around me.
So I cut out her tongue.
My anger is mute.
Her stare is like stone.
She’s learned to sign to sad.
Sad takes up space for the two of them at the dinner table,
   double the helpings, nice and full.
He’s not scared to make his presence known.
One look from her and sad translates her unbearable quiet to
   a blue void.
Anger and sad have learned to come paired now.
When sad speaks, I know the words were filtered from their
   red hues.
But the longer they chat, the more they change.
Sad has started to lose his appetite.
He says the food is cold and the tea has become bitter, like it’s
   steeped in its leaves for too long,
and hasn’t begun to let go.