What do you know of the little red dragon who sits between your shoulder blades? I used to think rage was a red thing. A flaming cardinal, erupting in song. Burst windowpanes, sending pieces of glass into a cascade of whispers.
That was before I knew better. Before the days of the dragon.
Now, rage is a soft purr. Something I could never put it down. It crawls up my throat, begging to be…
