Ire
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I'm afraid of anger, and I'm afraid to admit it. I shy away from confrontation or, worse, weirder, I invite it in and then try and make it go away, as if sitting at midnight in the graveyard makes avoiding the demons easier. It doesn't. It just makes their eventual presence less surprising.
Without realising it, I slip unnoticed into the role of fixer, calmer. I have memories of my mum doing it, when I was young, and now I find myself unexpectedly doing it too. Oil for the water. Damp cloth for the flames.