The Anger We Were Told to Swallow

Sometimes women shrink themselves to accommodate negativity from others, often at their own expense

(Image by Miguel Rodriguez Leon via Pexels)

It consumed my breath— 

heat raced to the surface of my skin, 

my head began to spin. 

The words he coldly spat out of his mouth 

dripped like venom,

seeping, contaminating the rivers in my body. 

I wanted to shout—

to dig my feet into the earth

to become one with the red

that steamed from my body. 

But my vision blurred,

and my mind fell victim to drowsiness. 

There are expectations that are often embraced in 

in hushed, obedient whispers. 

And there is the terror 

that looms over fierce women—

that one day 

their confidence will be answered with outright poison. 

So I laid a stone in my own path

before I

Tripped and hit the concrete too hard and took a strong step on top of my aching heart. 

A piece of me was now tied to the ground,

The rope coarse, jagged and keeping me bound. 

Womanhood is a contradiction—

brazen and burning, 

yet hand-in-hand with stillness,

with quiet, practiced tranquility. 

The world crowns our sorrow as honour, 

but the anger we were taught to swallow

remembers—

we were always warriors in battle.