Like a flowerpot on the windowsill
One push and it's over
A brief moment of freefall before smashing to bits on the pavement below.
It is like this you know. Coiled, waiting to strike, pent up in a shell. Simple, quick; it could have easily been an accident, an unfortunate event.
Quiet does not mean gentle.
Suffuse. Steam. Pervade. Diffuse. Breathe, release, scream (but not loudly or they will hear you). Or choose not to this time and pay the piper to bring you the peppers he picked, and eat them raw and wholesale until your breath burns in your skull. You'll pay tomorrow for sure, with the headache and the Ring of Fire (that brings to you a great clarity of understanding that Johnny Cash wrote the song after a long night of cerveza, tequila, and habanero tacos), but for now your brain is on a crank high that makes you see in flavors, delicious coppery taste of blood and salty tears.
The lessons of rage, the tendrils of thought, the mnemonic gentle touch at your center that brings the flood of calm, except this time you don't want the calm. You want the burn, the rage the fire that lets you explode grinning and cut like a buzzsaw everything in your path.
Or just one simple push.
It's so easy.