The William Gilmore Simms Prize
I just said, "I like azaleas".
Until then, the ride had been quiet.
Anger looked at me and spewed forth.
"Azaleas don’t grow in this climate.
"You don’t know what you’re talking about."
I just saw one as we drove. But I’m stupid. I should have known better.
Every word is a dart meant to hurt Anger.
Every sentence, a condemnation of who It is.
Anger hates me. Anger wants to hurt me. Anger wants me dead.
The Shell that holds Anger is growing less firm, less solid.
The Shell has less control over what Anger does.
The Shell does not realize and will not control Anger.
Perhaps it’s the one way he still feels alive?
All I know is, I like azaleas, and Anger wants me dead.