Lately, I can’t clean the anger
from the air quickly enough,
and it gets caught in my hair
like thick spider webs
stacked over each other
in sticky white layers.

They say to log out
for most of the day,
and I do,
but it isn’t enough—

because the anger has leaked
out past the screen protector
and settled here, offline,
beside me,

physical enough to pinch my ribs
when I try to focus
on anything different,
too abstract
to throw in the trash.

Lately, I think that
I am anger,
maybe.
Not the dream answer I whimsied up
in kindergarten
when teachers asked for
my future plans.

“I want to be deep hurt
darkened with bitterness,”
I didn’t say.
“I want to be others’ moral judge.
I want to be obsessively
never okay.”