The Anger Stage
Don’t tell me it’s a process, don’t hand me your compassion map,
I’m not at peace with anything and I don’t need the wrap,
You want me clean and functional, you want me through the haze,
But I am burning red and ugly in the anger phase.
I’m angry at the doctors who said everything was looking fine,
I’m angry at the road they took without warning me or sign,
I’m angry at myself for every selfish cowardly choice I made,
And I’m angry at the universe for holding every ace and spade.
This is the anger, this is the part they murmur around,
This is the fire that comes before the grief gets quiet
and profound,
This is the three a.m. and throwing things and slamming doors,
This is the turning everything inside out on every floor,
The anger is the grief that hasn’t found the shape to wear,
The anger is the grief that has no other way to breathe the air.
And maybe the anger is the most unvarnished thing I have,
Because it proves I loved you past the point of any epitaph,
And when it burns down to the ember sitting in my chest,
I’ll be left with something quieter —
but this is what comes first.