My Anger wants to ride the Ferris wheel before she leaves, to look into the fish scale clouds. She blames me for this cold rain. Also the shadowy woods, the streetlamps that flicker but won’t give light, and the broken cinderblocks we keep tripping over. Ghost brambles shimmer like fog, while the forest releases the clean cedar smell of its misery. My Anger claims she doesn’t want to be difficult: eventually, she’ll get on the train. But someone must watch her go. Someone must pack her a little bundle of lunch, then watch her take her seat and wave through the dirty window. She won’t miss the fallen leaves that glint like campfires. Or the thorny creepers that draw blood on her ankles. But she has already booked her ticket home to me.