It is my temper that holds me hostage.
At one time, explosive. Reactive. Ignited with fear and rage and torment.
Yet now,
With age,
More sinister.
Lurking in the muddy swamps of cynicism and a well sharpened blade,
Whipping out to slash at the heels of Achilles.
Anyone honest,
Having experienced my wrath:
Would admit to it.
Were they transparent, they would say
"Yea she's nice, but cruel."
Described as hard and unfeeling,
They are not wrong.
Because feeling should be tempered by the lethality of the war that has been waged.
To say:
"They euthanized with kindness"
A sort of brutality that anyone, having made the choice to put down their dog, would recognize.
Yet feeling within, the truth of a life taken.
And I cannot say that I don't know the depths at which my blade will plunge,
When my temper combines with my vocabulary, weighted by my ability to see an artery and aim for it.
Kinder yet would it be-
To take life.
Than to knowingly cause a life force to drain out at my hand.
I am not innocent of this.
Yet neither am I a shrinking violet.
Rather I aim my guilt at improvement, than coy with victimhood.
I can see that I was created-
And formed to be this way.
With reason and compounded interest added.
Still I may,
With time,
Control it.
With forgiveness,
Dull the blade-
Or even sheath it:
Saving it for a worthy opponent.
Baring it only when justified.
Better yet,
Would that be.
