The Wall

I don’t know what to do with the anger. People are more comfortable with sadness. Sadness is clean. Sadness is poetic. Anger scares them because anger has edges and blame and heat. But grief is full of anger. At the disease. At God. At fate. At healthy people. At commercials. At holiday cards. At sleep number ads showing some happy couple tucked in like the universe isn’t a goddamn meat grinder. I get mad at stupid things because the real thing is too big. A commercial. A song. A form asking for marital status. A doctor’s office. A photo memory popping up like some algorithmic asshole saying, “Remember this?” Yes. I fucking remember. That’s the problem. The anger isn’t always explosive. Sometimes it’s just this low electrical hum under everything. A sense that I have been profoundly wronged by existence itself and there is nowhere to file the complaint. So I carry it. I make dinner with it. I drive with it. I smile through it. But it’s there. Always there.