The Bile of Rage

The bile of rage boils at the pit of my gut. Black steam rises, up and up, until it escapes my mouth in a belch, turning my breath into a hot, putrid gas. The stench burns my watering eyes. It burns the hairs inside my nose, it burns the lining of my throat as I inhale. Sometimes the black steam turns to smoke, then settles above my head in a cloud. It keeps me cool in the summertime, but my spine curves downward and my shoulders hunch in front of me with the weight of it. But that's as far as it goes. The anger, the bile, the lava. It stays put. I've successfully trained myself to swallow it back down to my belly when it tries to hurl itself out of me like vomit. A spoonful of sugar helps. Sometimes I dream that if I swallow enough times, the oily, frothy bile will stay down for good. Maybe it'll even pass through me, like the shit that it is. But no matter how many times I clench my eyes shut and force it into my stomach like I'm drinking piss for a dare, it remains in my system, lurking, invading my mind, my heart, my soul. I always know it's still there because it sends meal worms through my veins and up to my brain to whisper "I'm still here..." Indeed, I carry this fury with me, every where I go. I fear that one day it may take over, so harshly that my facade of normalcy and happiness will be forced out of my body through my pores, revealing who I really am to those I love. And I don't want that. The real me isn't fit for family gatherings and motherly duties and wifely privileges. The real me cannot be loved. It cannot be a person, it cannot exist. It cannot be accepted, therefore it is unacceptable. So, every week, like clockwork, I go to the grocery store and I stock up on sugar.