Thin Ice

Some people compare rage to a volcano

explosions hiding under the surface,

ready to spew ash and level cities

like Pompeii.

But rage is a pond at thirty degrees,

just barely frozen,

a pool of thin ice.

It looks beautiful from afar,

you take pictures of the frozen surface,

you admire the way the ice

traces patterns on the water.

But if you step on that ice,

a trigger so subtle that some may not even notice,

the ice cracks and collapses,

plunging your feet into cold muddy water,

the mud and cold creeps up your body

rips into your bones,

sometimes softly,

like sinking into memory foam,

and sometimes hard and fast,

like running into a pole

on the playground.

Rage has many forms,

many metaphors,

and my rage

is a half-frozen pond,

coated in a layer

of thin ice.