There’s a pool of rage deep inside me, churning it’s own lullabies while I contain it. Sometimes when buttons are pushed, the anger tapped on this pool for fuel.
This anger is white. It blinds my mind, it erases all rational thoughts and replaces it with a canvas of white waiting for blood to be drawn, for ink.
This anger is white, to put it quite simply. A white anger is an anger that has no intended target, for the target is the nearest soul it takes as a colour to paint a shape. Draw, draw, out the soul and spunk in a person and leave them dry. Once the canvas is painted, we are satisfied.

A white anger doesn’t slowly unfold, but it takes over a person like a lightning. Angry. The need to lash and break. Only by breaking and wrecking will it become whole again.