the fire of memories

it's never what people do
that makes us angry; it's what we tell ourselves about what they did.
Marshall Rosenberg















the anger persists
and I'm just so tired of it,
how it weighs me down,
how it shuts me up,
how it grinds my guts,
how it burns me into ashes,
consumed by the fire of memories,

the hands that tried to shape me,
poor artists all,
berift of any bit of magic
in the paint they dashed,
the clay they threw
upon my form,
devising mere self-portraits
for which I have spent my life
apologising,

save one,
who saw at a glance
the simple art of me,

a child of grief
brewing bitter tea 
to sup alone in shrouded rooms,
the one true artist,
my heart advised,
yet I cannot loosen
my furious cloak of fears 
for her,

and so persists the anger.