At first, the anger manifests itself as a tiny annoyance in the back of my brain.  I shut it out, I talk loudly about the anger.  I hope it will go away, maybe leave the apartment, maybe just resolve itself.  Then the anger is an argument, a stupid one about attention and donuts and computers.  The anger knows it is right, becomes frustration.

Then something is lashing out at me, something that moves and stings and grows.  Something crashes.  The anger in my head grows and for a second, I am unsure what shape it will take.  It begins at my feet, at the tips of my toes, and it pulls me to my feet in a nanosecond.  Several emotions ranging between rage and fear make me want to strike out and cry at the same time.  My muscles tense.  They respond without my permission.  Auto-pilot.  Bitter, mechanically cold taste in my mouth.  Later I am partially glad they responded the way they did, partially disappointed.  The anger spreads to my lower back, where something made contact with my flesh and planted new seeds of anger.

Now the anger is yelling, moving decidedly, swearing, mocking.  It feels good, flowing freely in my veins, like an alcohol of hate.  It keeps away the tears.  The underbelly of the anger.

The anger in my lower back grows.  It feels like kidney stones.  It is rolling, rolling.  The taste is not gone.

Then the anger wants retribution, wants apology and sacrifice and replacement and revenge.  It needs these things and it tells me hungrily.  It has three branches—thin, red, pointy devil-like fingers: thirsting to yell and swear, wanting to run and cry, and begging to be violent.  The weak underbelly of the anger wants hugs.

The anger has infested my kidneys.  The infestation is growing, spreading.

Later, lying in bed trying to dream, the anger turns into the insurmountable desire to throw you up against a wall, using my forearms to pound your collar bones and pin them down, scream obscenities loudly and close to your face so you can feel my spit and my hot breath with every word.  Bundle your shirt up into my clenched fists and jerk you forward to slam your shoulders back against the wall with greater force than either of us knew I possessed, so you know: I am in the position of power, I am in control here, I will not run and cry and be intimidated.  I am woman.  I will bruise you in some way.

Then the anger turns into the desire to write.  To package it neatly and paint it somewhere else.  Tie it up with a bow.  My kidneys can harbor it no longer.