I’m being too gentle with my words. Too delicate.
I have all of this beautiful rage inside just begging for an audience.
And yet, I deliberately contain it.
It has a mind of its own, however. A threshold. It craves release.
So, I let it out in short, polite bursts, intending only to amuse or passably provoke. For a few moments, I let my demons play in the light, then rein them in again.
It’s not enough.
You can’t deny recess to school children for days and days, and then expect them not to climb the walls or lose their sh*t.
So, I write.
But what, exactly, is beautiful rage?
For me, beautiful rage is defiant femininity. It’s flipping off the patriarchy, one gorgeous word at a time. It’s the radical act of choosing self-actualization over domestication.
It’s a patriarchal sh*t pile out there, and sadly, it’s full of women, too. And I have to pick away at that scab.
Beautiful rage is good. It’s motivating and stokes change. There’s beauty within the rage, and without.
I’m not just screaming into the abyss, unnoticed. I’m demanding to be heard and expecting that you’ll listen.
I’m not just writing my way out, I’m writing my way through.
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