Serpentine — you said you weren’t angry.

But I know what venom tastes like now.

Serpentine slithers. It winds through memory with a smile that never reaches the eyes. This is where fury simmers beneath civility—controlled, rehearsed, weaponized. The wrathful rage out loud, but the sullen—they sink. They bury their fury in silence and call it peace.

Dante sees both:

the furious thrashing on the surface,

and below—those submerged in quiet, seething surrender.

Wrath doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes it waits.

Breathes underwater.

Smiles through gritted teeth.

You never screamed.

You implied.

You crafted your cruelty like a sonnet. Turned your silence into a punishment. You made your sadness sacred—untouchable, untouching.

And every time I pulled away, you reminded me of what you had endured, as if that gave you permission to poison the well.

Serpentine remembers the bite behind your kindness, the sweetness laced with consequence.

You never wanted peace.

You wanted power— wrapped in the illusion of calm. This is the circle where resentment blooms. Where kindness dies with its eyes wide open. Where the fire never goes out—because no one will admit it’s still burning.