I have this rage that sits in my belly like a popcorn kernel,
Every time I turn on the news, I gasp for breath and open my mouth,
accidentally feeding it,
hot oil swirling down my throat,
growing the seed and
growing the seed
until it pops,
and exists in its new form, three times its original size.
It aches, it itches, it
multiplies, until I have a collection of them, a
veritable cineplex's worth of foreign objects
taking up space in my system,
which is hardly even mine these days.
These days, when I'm fragmented and
micromanaged by a broken system and
anger seeping through my veins like
A belly full of sodium,
a meal I didn't ask for,
force-fed to the point of bursting.