Dinner With Rage

I have rage for dinner. 
I swallow my rage, but it keeps coming up. 
Like a throw up that needs to let out. 
It tastes like winter in New York: Long. Lonely. Dreadful. 
It feels like summer in New York: Sticky. Fuming. Bothersome. 
I have rage for dinner on a gold platter and my grandmother's silver spoon. 
I sip it gently so it doesn't burn my tongue, but for no use: 
I am eating fire. Unbearable. Harsh. Memorable.
I think about Anger and how milder it tastes compares to this. 
I think on how evolved I had become - that I can swallow rage whole. 
I finish my meal. Leave a leftover, to remember me by. A shred of my shriek, of my piercing eyes, my hoarse voice. Anything that says 'Rage was here.' To leave a mark. Sign my name. Be infinite.