On your face.
Worse than a slap across the face.
So you can decide
To wipe it off,
And curdle your own saliva in the back of your throat
And spit back.
How many silent offenses can you bear?
Subtle reminders of ‘your place’ in the world?
How much anger can you stifle with reason
How many times can you tell yourself that ‘They don’t know any better?’
How many mornings can you sweetly smile
At the ones who cause you so much misery?
How much? How many?
The tragedy of dying silently
Of fuming silently within,
Is that nobody sees the fire
Though the house within is ablaze
And they will quietly walk past your house
Unaware of your inferno
As business continues as usual.