I keep her close to my chest,

That writhing, raging, hateful fire.

Her limbs reach up from somewhere deep in my throat,

To pepper my words with her bitter heat.

Though I have been inflicted with unimaginable pains,

Though the sweetness of my trust has been defiled,

Though I have been wronged.

I have learnt long ago,

That there is no virtue in spitting the temperament of my vexation on others.

However,

It is a sort of kindness to oneself,

To fester in a body burdened with choler,

Than to douse that vigorous swelter,

And offer olive branches instead of kindling .