The beast within me rises again, claws sharp, breath hot, and it feels too familiar, too close. Someone once told me I’m a man of integrity. Do they think that means I don’t feel it? That I don’t taste the heat of anger burning in my chest, don’t feel the sting of betrayal as if it cuts deeper than flesh? Because I do. Oh, I do.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” That’s what they told me as a kid, a lie they tried to sell to a child too young to understand. Words do hurt. They wound deeper than any stick or stone ever could. I remember those words—the arrows thrown at me, sharp and deliberate. Words that weren’t meant to break skin but tore through my soul, leaving scars I still carry. Words that made me question my worth, my place, my very existence. The pain of words has the power to alter not just a moment, but entire lives, entire generations.

Triggers—they’re like the cock of a rifle, deliberate but instinctive. A word, a glance, a betrayal—it’s all it takes to load the chamber. Anger, hot and heavy, becomes the bullet, ready to explode with precision and intent. But here’s the truth: once the bullet leaves, it doesn’t return. There’s no pulling it back, no undoing the damage it can inflict. The sting of a harsh word, once spoken, lingers far longer than any blow could ever.

The pause, though—that’s where integrity lives. It’s in the breathing, the moment of choice between reaction and restraint. Do I squeeze the trigger? Do I let the beast take control? The rifle is steady in my hands, the temptation familiar, but integrity whispers, Not like this. Not today.

Anger is natural. It’s human. But integrity? That’s going against the nature of self. It’s looking the beast in the eye and saying, You will not define me. It hurts at first—God, does it hurt. Swallowing my fury feels like holding my breath underwater, fighting the pressure. But over time, it gets easier. The beast doesn’t leave—it never does—but it learns its place.

The triggers come again and again—sharp words, dismissive tones, betrayal’s sting. The beast roars, ready to devour. And for a moment, I want to let the bullet fly, to feel the release. After all, I’m just a man, right? A man who feels, who bleeds, who breaks.

But every pause is a victory. Every time I lower the rifle, I claim my witness. This isn’t about denying my anger—it’s about mastering it. The world expects me to fire, to let my rage burn through the silence. But I refuse to be the man who destroys what he’s built with one impulsive shot.

The battle is never over, but with each fight, I grow stronger. The beast within is a part of me, yes. But it’s not the master of me. Every time I choose the harder path, I remember: integrity isn’t the absence of anger—it’s the pause, the restraint, and the wisdom to know that some bullets are better left unfired. Words, once unleashed, can wound beyond repair—but they are not my master.

© Nelly Vee