spitting it out

I am angry.

I am angry because…

Because of a hundred things,
A thousand things.
Because of big things,
And because of small things.

Because of the things you called me.
Because of the things you said.
Because of the things you never said.

I am angry that you acted as if silence means nothing,
When silence is complicity.

I am angry because of all the years
Of holding back,
Of telling myself:
“What good would it do to tell you?”.

You would only say that you’re sorry.
That you did your best.
And what good would it do to say
“Your best wasn’t good enough”.

But all these years of unspoken anger
Are still in me.
Like sharp stones in my belly
Weighing me down
And leaving me bleeding inside.

I try to cough them up,
To spit them out.
But I cannot.
They rise
Burning my throat
Only to be swallowed down again.

And I know it is unfair
For me to be so angry at you,
Still
So angry,
When there is so little of you left
To be angry at.

So I cannot spit it out.