Four years of Anger.

There is anger, there, in her movements.
In the loudness of each trudged step.
In the rough handling of inanimate objects.

There is anger in her words.
Each syllable designed to cut and puncture.
Each consonant rasped,
Each vowel stretched and barked.

There is anger with each noise that cannot be spelt, but only hinted at:
In the gravity of her sigh,
In the emphasised grunt,
In the poignant snort.

There is anger in her scathing look,
Or more so, in the avoidance of eye contact.

There is anger in her hands:
In the clenching of a tissue,
In the balled fist barely kept in check against her side.

There is anger in her tight-lipped frown,
In the malice of her clenched teeth
And in the danger of her jawline.
There is too much anger in the four-year-old girl when she does not get her own way.

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