Without speaking, in long moments of silence. turning inward lays all the inner workings of my heart bare, with only myself to interpret it. And with the small pieces of introspection that slides through the clouded gaze of bias, these inner thoughts are worked and reworked until they change into something unknown. 

These parts, so inseparable from the heart, are taken into the conscious. They are formed from blistering heat, and shrivel in the cold forests of the brain. As the nights bleed to day, and the day to mornings and evenings, the warm little heart pieces are passed from hand to mouth to hand to stomach. Cycling until it becomes too foreign, too unknown to the physical reality of the heart, and with another turn in the hand, dissociated from the conscious. 

When it is done cycling and being thought about, handled from one place to another, the little part is returned back to the heart. However, it no longer fits the same. 

And anger is formed like this; passed too much from the heart to the conscious, to the stomach. Except it never leaves any of the places it touches. Anger is not a single piece of emotion but all the ripe injustices of time passed. This piece only heats up, never shriveling up in the brain. When it is time for it to return to the heart, it comes in too onerous, with needles that pinch and squeeze everything else out of the way. 

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