You won't like me when I'm angry. It's a line I've said as the vaguest of warnings to those who have pushed me or those I've come to care for in the villages I've travelled through. When they've threatened the people who were under my care, the people who opened their homes to me, who shared the food off their tables with me, who gave me purpose to this nomadic life, they have threatened me. These people are my life now. I give them only the vaguest of warnings because in truth, I'd rather give them none at all. They don't understand.
She stands there acting as if she's a friend. She acts as though she has no fear. I see it in her. Perhaps she's not a friend but she doesn't try to force my hand for that I'll hear her out. I warn her she won't like me when I'm angry. She assures me they'll step carefully. She doesn't understand.
I tell them they won't like me when I'm angry. They walk on eggshells around me. They ask me to keep calm. They skitter nervously when something clanks in the background. I barely notice it. They worry that this time will result in my loss of control. I tell them they won't like me when I'm angry. They don't understand. In truth, I'm always angry because I know my anger has no bearing on them. They won't like me anyway.