Eyelash

I wish that anger was something you could bottle and put on a shelf. I'd wrench this poisonous bulb out of the pit of my stomach and stuff it in that bottle and just let it simmer. It'd be like wine, or cheese; just getting better as it gets older. While he's out cavorting with Love I'd gather the tiny red thorns of rage and fashion myself a crown to gather dust on the shelf next to the bottle until a later date. I'd sharpen my claws and teeth and wits on rocks split in half from the fury of my gaze, and I'd weave the hot, unbearably satisfying sensation of blood boiling into a heavy, dark cloak of velvet and pockets to hold my barbed temper. I'd shine my armor and polish my helmet and cut the air with vicious strokes, and when ready I'd lie in wait, flash-frozen until the time comes to seek revenge.

It just upsets me to know that, when it matters, I won't be angry anymore.