The Hornet

 

I guess I spent most of my life angry.

Not the loud kind.

More like a pilot light that never went out.

People called me a "hornet"... among other things.

They had no idea how much of that sting

was just hurt wearing a tougher face.

I learned early to fold everything small.

Hide it behind a laugh.

A joke.

A well‑timed line of sarcasm

that made people think I was fine.

I got good at that.

Too good.

There were thoughts I never said out loud.

Dark ones that curled inward,

When I didn’t know where else to put them.

I didn’t trust anyone

with the depth of that hurt.

Sunday sermons told me I was wrong for feeling it,

So I carried the shame quietly,

like a secret I couldn’t confess

even to myself.

Most days I just… simmered.

No release.

No place to put the pressure.

Even now, I’m ashamed

of the words that flare up in my head

before I swallow them whole.

With time, I’ve learned to walk away.

To accept that some people are rude,

or just crude,

or careless with their words,

but not out of malice.

Some folks just can’t think past

whatever falls out of their mouths.

And I see how I still brace for impact

before there’s even an offense to meet it.

Old habits.

Old armor.

I’m still learning, slowly,

that some things

and some people

just can’t matter in the long run.

Age has softened me.

The sting isn’t what it used to be.

But I still keep people at a distance,

not out of coldness,

just… safety.

Just the way I learned to survive.

And maybe this,

these words in the dark,

never meant to be sent,

is the closest I’ve come

to saying it plainly:

Anger shaped me,

but I’m trying to live

without letting it be

the whole story of what killed me.