They say forgiveness is a virtue, but I’d rather keep my anger.

Forgiving you would likely put a girl like me in danger.

The slippery lips and fingertips that push me to the edge.

Then cry your woes, deny your blows, and make your final pledge.

What good will virtues do me when I cry myself to sleep?

You’re snoring sounds on peaceful grounds; I barely make a peep.

The time ticks by, and I can feel the heat begin to rise.

The tension builds beneath my face; it dries my drowning eyes.

If sadness brings him comfort, then what will anger bring?

A maddening roar that shakes the floor will likely start to sting.

So if I go into the night with anger by my side…

I know I’ve built a place I’m heard, nowhere for him to hide.