I out myself in front of my cat

as a raging individual
full of rage fully
seething and
blinding clarity that
this, here, staring
curiously is just a cat. I
do not let escape
my fury out
there, outside, in the
sun where people [might]
see Arab equivalent to
anger binding all loose
threads of my being;
there, outside, in the
night where people [do]
see woman oh so soft
and giggly and pleas[e]
ant pink lips poofy
hair glossy glances too
seared inside to give
way, give me
away. I
jolt up at 4 AM and find
her being cute being play
ful[l] and content and I
sleep-deprived
extend my arms into far
graves of past selves dig
deep into charred dirt pull
out skeletons of raging
rage light their wick kindle
their flames scream loudly
to the world buzzing inside
her body to stop acting
up. I catch
myself midway within my
tantrum stand walk move
away to timeout to breathe
but she follows
head tilted angling perception
weighting as I wait as rage
passes.

Farah Taha is a writer from Beirut, Lebanon. She currently resides in Oklahoma, where she continues to write while completing a doctoral degree in English. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry and Watershed Review.