I used to speak up less.
I’d hold my tongue when someone stepped on my toes or the toes of another.
The blood seeping from that muscle as my teeth dug deeper.
Better to harm myself than to make my oppressor feel uncomfortable.
When my gut learned to speak, it behaved like a child learning to use chapstick for the first time.
I rolled my defensiveness all the way up and made a mess of it.
The years of silencing my difficulty, the years of trying to be smaller.
It makes it easy to confuse a man being an asshole with a man just not being a woman.
I’ve searched their eyes for what was left behind in their mother’s womb.
Intuition, emotional complexity, deep wells of compassion.
It’s been a while since I’ve written an angry poem.
I used to write them often.
Shouting rhythmic suppression from my gut like a fountain pen overflowing.
While maybe not wise or calculated or particularly intentional;
there are moments when angry poetry feels like the only option.