I am getting acquainted with my rage.
Learning her edges, her boundaries, her heat.
Coaxing her from the box to which she has been banished for so long. Too long.
Banished, because rage is such a dirty word for a woman to wield.
An unladylike word. Too much. Too hard.
Angry woman.
Nasty woman.
But there is no light without darkness. And I have been afraid of my darkness for far too long.
I have been afraid of everything for far too long.
Afraid of being rejected by those from whom I so desperately seek approval.
Afraid of neglecting the deepest parts of myself in exchange for social safety.
Afraid of not being enough, of being too much, of caring too much, of being perceived to care too little, of every single interaction as if my worth is tied to external validation rather than the power that swims deep in my veins.
I have been so worried about being rejected, unwanted, cast out.
But now, rejection is the stone upon which I whet my rage.
I reject the container that society has built to cage me.
The expectation that I will tear my sisters down rather than build them up.
The myth that I should be seen and not heard.
Every tale ever told designed to keep me small and weak and alone.
I reject the expectation that my body is anyone’s business but my own.
That what I lose and what I gain and what I grow and cut and mark is something to be commented upon.
Judged upon.
I reject the rule that my relationships must adhere to standards passed down by men too afraid to witness a woman’s passion laid bare and her heart laid open.
That love is finite.
That my sexuality must be defined as either this, or that. For I am neither this nor that and my relationship, whatever they may be, are mine and mine alone.
I reject the notion that I must choose – soft or hard, light or dark, feminine or masculine.
I reject the expectation that I dress a certain way, act a certain way, talk a certain way to make the world comfortable.The world needs to be less comfortable with what is, because what is is killing us, slowly and quickly in all the ways we will not realize until we wake up one day and see that we have been dead for all this time.
I reject the thought that I cannot be both enraged and have unconditional love in my heart.
I reject every word uttered with the intent to maim and wound, sentences brandished like scalpels, precise cuts to the core in jealousy and fear.
I am not here for your pleasure.
I am not here to shield you from your insecurities.
I am not here for your standards.
I am getting acquainted with my rage. Learning her power, her love, her voice.
The box has been opened.
And if I am to be a warning, a cautionary tale, like Pandora, like Eve, like every woman framed to be an agent of chaos,
Let the warning be this.
Our voices cannot be tamed.
Our bodies cannot be claimed.
And if you try to take our mother given power, we will rise.
And we will rage.
