it.

      Building, building, always ready to speak, to strike, to redress.  At the tip of my teeth, it quivers, raging against the offending lips that hold back the thousand-tongued lash that must fall upon my enemies.  My enemies?  Its enemies.  Knocking softly, insistently, gently, violently, at the left side of my brain, thinking of ways.  Ways it can smash.  Grind into dust.  Maul.  Not physical bodies, no.  Spirits.  Crushing the life of another from the inside out, leaving them a shell, a victim.  Savoring the shivers of the defendant as he is culled into unwariness, then beaten quite senseless.  "Your hair."  "Your face."  "Your eyes."  "Your clothes." "Your speech."  "Your behaviour."  "It's all... so dead."  

      Have you felt it?  It is careful not to show too easily.  It leaves small dents in your body.  Out of the spirit, the body withers.  It leaves marks all over, marks only time cannot heal.  It is anger.  It burns.  It festers.  It rots from within.  It spawns from negligence.  It spawns from fear.  It spawns from death.  It spawns from wrongdoing.  It spawns from misunderstanding.  From the negligence, anger.  Out of the anger, negligence.  A wheel, never ending, until... 

      Have you felt it?  I've felt it.  I've felt the anger of other people.  I've felt my own anger against other people.  It is ugly.  Rid me of it.  Please.

Gollum.