Anger, the Eating of It

I am angry.
All the time.When I go to sleep at night, falling into bed and dreading already the waking, I am angry. When I am woken roughly in the morning by children's sharp bodies and thoughtless hands, I am immediately angry. When I talk to my friends I am angry. When the children make a mistake, or are slow, or are overly touchy, when they are hungry or tired or squabbling, I am angry. When I laugh, when I joke and tease and imitate, I forget for a second the anger. But I am angry. When I kiss or am kissed, when I fuck or even when I make love, I am angry.

I eat all the time. Only sweet things. There is never enough; I am never ever ever satiated.
Late at night, after sitting up with fidgeting giggling children for hours(PLEASE go to sleep darling, stop talking, yes stop whispering too) I find myself suddenly, violently cramming my mouth with Christmas mince pie, urgently dousing the fire that is flaring up inside me. A dampener, to stop the vile words come vomiting out of my mouth. Because if I release the anger, then I will be left alone with Sadness, grief... The anger pollutes my very being, making me restless and twitchy and snappy and snarling, it makes me have stomach ulcers and worsens my back pain.

 But it is a welcome, very beloved buffer between myself, my knowing, and the sadness. Where the sadness is a damp fog that settles, chilly fingers creeping darkly over my heart, blotting out the sun and laughter and all the people that I care about, the anger is light, snapping crackling fire. It gives me warmth, I crave warmth.

So I eat all the sweet things instead, the chocolate and the Christmas mince pies, sweet rice cakes with dried yoghurt topping, and I sacrifice my body, my stomach, my health, to the anger which squats inside, and I become more angry with myself, and I eat some more. I am angry all the time.