Anger.

Patience is indeed a virtue.

Yet it bubbles up from within.

All the self-control can wear down one's defenses.

I was asked many times if I was okay, and out of politeness, I guess? Perhaps a sense of shame? An adherence to duty. I said, yes.

I didn't want to be seen as unprofessional or perceived to be weak, so I sucked it all in.

In many ways, I'm like a balloon. Inflatable, flexible. Capable to absorbing many of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

However, as nearly limitlessly adaptable and considerate as I can be, when spread out too thinly, stretched so expansively, my skin thins out to the point that the lightest touch turns hair-trigger and in  the blink of an eye, that taut enclosure that is keeping everything in, ruptures, unfolds, and peels back on the ill-will that has built up from within. Half a second unspools like eternity, tortuously protracts time as it is mercifully quick.

And I was left there, fist tightly clenched. Trembling in anger.

Raw nerve exposed to the unkind cold winter air.

Flinching with every twitching stroke of winter's icy fingers.

And that warmth swells from with in.

Ah yes, that is what we call - shame.