I wish I could tell you what decides whether today I will be soft or sharp.

I have searched for patterns.

Blamed lack of sleep.

Too much sleep.

Hunger.

The weather.

Nothing stays guilty for long.

Some mornings, I wake up feeling like music.

Everything is lighter.

Then, without warning, everything is unbearable.

My chest quickly becomes too small for all that I'm feeling.

The tiniest things become impossible things.

A cupboard left open.

The relentless vibration of a phone that never seems to rest.

Someone walking just a little too slowly.

A question I have already answered.

The sound of chewing.

A light that's too bright.

A room where everyone wants to talk at the same time.

None of these things are necessarily problems.

Yet somehow, my emotion greets them like they are.

I become impatient.

My replies grow shorter.

My energy fades quickly but quietly.

Most people imagine anger as shouting. Mine settles into silence.

It appears in the tightness of my words and not the volume of them.

It's the way a room suddenly becomes heavier after I've gone quiet.

Sometimes I catch myself becoming irritated before the moment has even happened.

And it's never just one thing.

It's twenty-nine tiny things,

arriving one after another,

Wearing me down in ways I don't notice until it's too late.

It happens in the few seconds between feeling and reacting.

That tiny space where I am desperately trying to convince myself,

It's not that serious.

Most days, when I seem quieter, or slower to answer,

I'm probably not even angry.

I'm just standing at the edge of another small thing, trying my hardest not to let it become a big one.