You'll keep trying to exorcise this rage until you realize there's not enough room in here for the both of you until you realise you would be thinking of her for the times she kept you safe, she's only here because she loves you until you realize you can filter her into a point so small she can burn straight through anything
Tell me how many times you've been told, "no one likes an angry woman" in a box on a low shelf, dusted like the flash of time you are the highest version of yourself highly anxious, highly sensitive, high off the fumes coming from your own sadness
If you aren't reading the room, you're reading a poem to the room, here is the first line: "I don't know how to write about what I'm feeling anymore"
We don't talk about it but we all wake up and realise the nightmare was better than this, we deal with it differently but we all feel like something is wrong, we recognise there is blame to be passed around but we end up back in the middle of the circle with it
still, in our arms, we can't pass this trauma
backwards up the generations
We can't go back far enough to see Eve giving birth to her child, we can't see how she burns when she hears
This is all your fault
God wouldn't have made you first
You were too hungry for things you didn't deserve
We don't need to see, though because we're all burning the whole forest of us
fast-forward — you've clawed your way out of the box
follow the cloud of smoke that leads to your big bad wolf of an appetite for putting space between you and everything, and here is the rage, blowing everything down, honey baby, moon song majesty, she's clearing space for the foundation, she's going to dig it so deep
here is the last line: " your hands and this rage and my hands and all our hands, covering the precious new growth"