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 released. To rip snarl shred. To protect.
She joins the gray sandstorm in my stomach. That dull lurch, that numbness that creeps over the edges of my eyelids at night begging me to sleep. To suspend into nothingness, to let it all go. How can I let go when the storm doesn’t cease? When the red dragon curls her claws around my spine?
“I laugh too much,” you said. And I saw a thirteen year old girl, building the own bars to a cage. I told you laughter was good medicine. I wanted to break the bars down and pull you out before it cements to your ribcage. Before the laughter gets stuck — only sometimes leaking out. I want you to hold on to every little shred of you while you can. Hold it tight.
I am standing inside my own cage. I learned the bars were there earlier than others, and I broke out. But you must do things on your own terms. We all dismantle it differently. I would never take away the gift of that journey. Just…
