my courage is a fickle, aggrieved thing,
and it is frightening,
how angry it is,
how that part of my courage carries me,
through storms and catastrophe.
it rages, it screams,
shattering windows and tearing down homes.
my courage is like a warped child throwing a tantrum,
their cheeks red,
their eyes dark.
my courage is like an earthquake tearing itself through a village.
it is not my friend,
but a plague.
it is not gentle, kind, or charitable.
it is vicious,
but it gets the job done.
i am still alive, after all.