A stranger cuts the line before me,
a flash of heat arcs through my chest,
my eyes sear the air, burn their back.
Righteousness kindles my pulse, my cause.
But when, hands full, someone holds a door,
or a child pauses to gift me their smile,
there’s no flare, no blaze, no river surge.
Gratitude whispers where fury would shout.
How easy to burn when slighted, unbound,
to feel the pulse of the world\'s sharp edge.
And yet, when the soft warmth strokes,
a gentle joy fails to swallow me whole.
What is this hunger for the taste of wrong,
the electric-alive spark of indignation?
Even beauty, when it swells my lungs,
sinks quieter than the weight of offense.