If the cliché is to be believed, other people see red.
Save for a handful of occasions in almost a half-century,
I generally think that I was born without this capability;
this emotion with its power to do great good, for the greater good,
or to wield devastating damage when out of control.
It strikes so very rarely that I do not have to think about it,
and cannot even find it in myself to raise more than an eyebrow
even when I have been badly wronged.
I do not see red; I see sharp blades of shiny steel;
hear them clashing together like giant teeth,
and feel silvery rushes coursing through my body,
bringing with them great energy, ready to fight.
Except, so unfamiliar are they, that I fear them.
I try to bury this rarest of emotions
below deep breaths and internal pep talks,
waiting for it to drain away, lest I damage somebody I love.
