Uncustomary Hiccups

I am Angry.

I am angry at the damp musty smell of the a lite shower.
I am angry at the sweet, sticky perfume scent that mixes with the rain scent as three girls walk by me.
I am angry at their click click click of heels to high for their legs.

I am angry at the the light that blacks out as I walk past.
I am angry at the car that flicks its lites at me when I take too long to cross the street.
I am angry at the heavy bag that lays across my sholder, digging into my bone and dragging at my feet

But mostly, I am angry at me, at the ball that burns in my upper chest.
I am angry at my need to change things.
I am angry at my need to judge and say of how it should, can, and cannot be.
I am angry at the fact that even though I want to let them go and do what they want, I have to control myself, from telling them what they should, could, would do.

But all-ly, I am angry at me.