The Color of Purity

Everyone thinks it’s red. Blood red. Fire red. Red flag to a bull.


It isn’t.

Rage is white. Pure white. Snow white. White as my beard. White as my bones.

Without the rage, I am nothing, an empty bag of skin to flop on the ground. It is my structure, my core, the drive that keeps me waking up every morning. They try to calm me down, tell me to take it easy. They’re worried it will kill me, the burning white heat.

They’re right, of course.

But the rage is all I have left. Without it, I’m already dead.