Anger is something you can hold in your hand.

In the mornings, when you’re asleep and you lean towards me with your bottom lip puckered, I grip the edge of the sheet and my knuckles go white. My knuckles are bony and, in between them and the thinning, stained fabric of the sheet, is my anger.

You have a line in the middle of your forehead which squashes up a little when you dream. You have a habit of reaching out in the night. You have small hands and wrists, but they’re terribly strong.

I don’t mind until, one day…

Barbara van Wyk

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