The Trouble of Speaking Up ANGER SWEETENED What we don't forget is what we don't say. I mourn the leaps of anger covered by quizzical looks, grasshoppers covered by coagulating chocolate. Each word, like a leggy thing that would have sprung away, we caught and candified so it would stay spindly and alarmed, poised in our presence, dead, but in the shape of its old essence. We must eat them now. We must eat the words we should have let go but preserved, thinking to hide them. They were as small as insects blinking in our hands, but now they are stiff and shirred with sweet to twice their size, so what we gagged will gag us now that we are so enraged. By Molly Peacock The words of this poem came to my mind while I cried at the gas pump after storming out of my doctor's office. Usually, I am not one to cause a scene or stir up trouble at any public place; quite the opposite, I rather swallow my anger and hurt instead of speaking up. I usually console myself by m...