Red Room

My anger is soft and gentle, asking if it’s safe to come out now. She knows her place. She is a child with skinned knees, running to her mother for shelter. She seeks acceptance. She hides behind sadness. She is demure. She is complacent. She is afraid to be known and wants to be known. She has been silenced.

My anger is a wave that pushes at the edges of my body and threatens release. She demands to be seen. She isn’t a sweet or nice girl. She is raw and unapologetic. She has a voice. She is crouched and ready. She is justified. She is old and familiar. She is wise. She doesn’t want to hear any more excuses. She is done with platitudes. She won’t pardon you.