Fight

My best right-hook is yours, Anger.

Your round face, so smug and shiny
is pleased with its victory over me.
That ego, those lies.

The fist of my memory jabs at a chubby cheek,
the almost-jowls, ugly teeth hidden behind lying lips

Your dissembler fleshy softness suggests vulnerability but
when my upper cut lands it is unsatisfied. Not absorbed, not repelled.
Ineffective, ignored, unheard.
You have no weakness, no pitiable truth.

The only tactic to win this bout is to
take the pacifist's path.
Make you worthless. Confiscate your meaning.
Turn you into love or compassion; forgiveness or indifference.

But, Anger, I always had to win
You know me of old.
I'm sweaty and breathless in perpetuity.
My guard still up.
My beaten knuckles scuffed and bloody.