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.
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In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman