Sometimes you feel like a fist.
Other times, you feel like the ashtray after a party
no one invited you to.
Both are fine.
Just don’t throw the fist
or eat the ashtray.
You can cry.
It doesn’t make you weak.
It just means you are hydrated.
Anger is a hot beast.
Pet it. Name it.
Put it on a leash
before it chews through your math teacher.
Breathe in like the world owes you money.
Breathe out like you’re never getting it back.
Do this five times
before setting anything on fire.
Use your words.
Not your fists, your feet,
or that disturbingly accurate drawing of the principal
you keep hidden in your desk.
You are not your feelings.
You are the cracked cup holding them.
Still useful.
Still capable of holding tea. Or rage.
But preferably tea.
Love doesn’t mean people get to scream at you.
Even if they say
they scream because they care.
No, pal.
That’s just noise
in a cardigan.
Grown-ups don’t always regulate, either.
Some of them drink sadness from a flask
and call it Tuesday.
That’s not your job to fix.
Your job is snack time and honesty.
If you feel like exploding,
tell someone before you do.
Better a warning shot
than shrapnel.
You’re not bad.
You’re a tiny, furious poet
in a body that’s still learning
how to carry all that thunder.
That’s brave work.
That’s art.
That’s enough.