By Tonesa Jones
A hole the size of my middle knuckle was left in the door after I retracted my fist. The skin was cut, discolored with industrial white paint. I dabbed peroxide on it, smooth the skin in place with salve, cradled my hand to my heart.
I counted backwards from ten. Forward from one. My skin cooled. My temper did not. I spread my palms on the carpet and held my weight in my arms, pushed my body against gravity until it collapsed against the floor.
My body was tired, but anger still lived there, balled inside my still bleeding fist.