Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is

Host: The night had settled over the city like a velvet curtain — dark, thick, and strangely intimate. A faint fog rolled through the narrow alleyways, twisting between flickering streetlights and the smell of wet asphalt. Somewhere far off, a siren moaned, the city’s eternal heartbeat reminding its dwellers that pain was never far away.

Down a quiet side street, an old laundromat glowed — half-lit, half-forgotten. Inside, the hum of washing machines was steady and hypnotic, like a lullaby for the sleepless.

Jack sat on one of the folding tables, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his eyes heavy but bright with something untamed. Jeeny leaned against a washer, arms crossed, her hair slightly damp from the rain outside, her expression calm but questioning.

Above the hum, written in fading paint on the wall, were the words someone had once scrawled in defiance:

"Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean." — Maya Angelou

The light flickered once, briefly illuminating the grime, the machines, and the two people caught in that fragile moment between ruin and redemption.

Jeeny: (softly) Maya always did know how to cut to the bone.

Jack: (half-smiling) Yeah. But I don’t know if she ever saw how messy that fire gets.

Jeeny: (tilts her head) You mean anger?

Jack: (nods) Yeah. People romanticize it. Call it passion, justice, strength. But up close, it’s just destruction that hasn’t found a purpose yet.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe that’s the difference between bitterness and anger — one rots quietly, the other burns loud. But at least fire has light.

Jack: (chuckles) Light? Feels more like smoke to me lately.

Host: The washing machines spun, the water sloshing inside them like a restless tide. The air smelled faintly of detergent and electricity — clean and dangerous at the same time.

Jeeny: (thoughtfully) Bitterness eats. Anger burns. I guess both destroy, but one’s alive — the other’s dead.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. Bitterness is a slow death. Anger’s a quick one.

Jeeny: (steps closer) So what are you carrying right now — death or fire?

Jack: (grins faintly) Depends on the hour.

Jeeny: (gently) It’s fire tonight, isn’t it?

Jack: (exhales smoke) It always is when I think about them.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Them”?

Jack: (nods) The people who took everything and smiled while doing it.

Jeeny: (softly) And you think holding onto that flame makes it justice?

Jack: (sharply) It’s not justice. It’s memory.

Host: The light flickered again, shadows crossing Jack’s face — sharp and fractured, like a portrait drawn by guilt. The machines hummed louder, the sound building like a storm beneath the surface.

Jeeny: (softly) You can’t tell the difference anymore, can you? Between remembering and reliving.

Jack: (quietly) No. It’s the same thing now.

Jeeny: (pauses) Then Maya’s right — that’s the difference between bitterness and anger. One kills you from the inside, the other burns you out completely.

Jack: (frowns) And you think one’s better?

Jeeny: (nods) Fire’s honest. It doesn’t hide behind decay.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You sound like you respect anger.

Jeeny: (shrugs) I do. When it burns for truth. When it clears the rot. But most people don’t stop there — they let it burn the whole house.

Jack: (gazing at the machines) Yeah. Guess I’ve lived in ashes long enough.

Host: A drop of water from the ceiling landed on the metal counter beside him — a tiny sound, insignificant, yet sharp enough to slice through the heavy quiet.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know what bitterness does? It pretends to be righteous. Makes you believe you’re holding onto principles, when really, you’re just holding onto pain.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. Like drinking poison because you like the taste.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly.

Jack: (after a moment) But fire… fire’s different. It’s almost holy. It purifies. But it never stays still.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s the danger. Purification can turn to destruction if you don’t know when to stop.

Jack: (smirking) And who ever knows when to stop?

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) The ones who’ve lost enough to understand what’s left to save.

Host: The washing machine beeped, signaling the end of its cycle. The sound was small but final, like a punctuation mark at the end of their confessions.

Jack: (quietly) You ever been angry enough to want to set the whole world on fire?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Once. But I realized I wasn’t trying to destroy the world. I was just trying to match how burned I felt inside.

Jack: (softly) Yeah. That’s the worst part — realizing the fire’s got your name on it too.

Jeeny: (nods) The first thing anger burns is the hand that holds it.

Jack: (looking down) You ever think maybe that’s fair?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. It’s tragic. Because you can’t rebuild with ashes.

Jack: (quietly) You sound like forgiveness is the answer.

Jeeny: (gently) Forgiveness isn’t the answer. It’s just what comes after you realize you’ve already burned everything worth keeping.

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the cracked window, scattering the faint smell of smoke from Jack’s cigarette. The fog outside pressed against the glass like something waiting to be let in.

Jeeny: (softly) You know, Maya wasn’t saying anger is good. She was saying it’s cleansing — if you let it move through you. But if you trap it, it becomes bitterness.

Jack: (thoughtful) Like lightning — meant to pass, not to live inside a man.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. You hold onto fire long enough, and it stops lighting your path — starts burning your skin.

Jack: (quietly) I used to think my anger made me strong.

Jeeny: (gently) It did. Until it started making you smaller.

Jack: (after a pause) So what now? I just… let it go?

Jeeny: (softly) No. You let it teach you. Let it show you what mattered enough to hurt that badly — and then you honor that, not the wound.

Host: The machines slowed, their hum fading to silence. The room grew still, the air charged with the kind of calm that comes only after something has been named.

Jack: (quietly) You think there’s a difference between being clean and being empty?

Jeeny: (nodding) There can be. Anger burns clean when it’s used to create light — not to erase everything else.

Jack: (half-smiles) You make it sound like art.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe it is. Fire’s not evil, Jack. It’s just honest. It shows you what can’t survive heat.

Jack: (looking out the window) I guess that includes me.

Jeeny: (softly) No — just the parts of you that stopped growing.

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind a faint mist that glowed beneath the streetlights. The windows began to clear, revealing the world outside — wet, raw, but clean.

Jeeny walked to the machine, opened it, and began to pull out freshly washed clothes — still warm, still fragrant with soap.

Jeeny: (quietly) See that? It’s what she meant. The fire burns it all clean — the filth, the residue, the weight. What’s left is lighter, softer, new.

Jack: (watching her) And fragile.

Jeeny: (smiles) Everything that’s worth saving is.

Host: She handed him a folded shirt, and he took it, his fingers brushing hers — a small gesture, but one that said more than forgiveness ever could.

The two stood in the quiet hum of the laundromat, surrounded by warmth and the smell of renewal.

Outside, the first hint of dawn slipped through the fog — pale gold, tentative, like the light learning how to return.

Host (closing):
Maya was right — bitterness eats because it refuses to move, but anger burns because it must.
Fire, when guided, becomes creation.
Fire, when caged, becomes cancer.

And in the quiet glow of morning, as Jack and Jeeny stepped into the new day, the truth hung in the air like smoke turning to breath:

Let the fire pass through you.
Let it cleanse — not consume.
Only then does the heat become light.