Femrage

Some days you wake up ready to punch the morning in the teeth.

It’s not enough that it’s here knocking about your dusty eyelashes and caked on face to remind you that there is another day here for you to keep on living, but it demands attention, errands, alarms, invitations, calamities that all need attending to.

Your rage boils dangerously close to the surface in the shower while you hope that every ounce of your being will rinse down the drain if you scrub hard enough. It’s too late for regrets, you were born and now here you are. Get out of the shower hope for the best. Stub your toe on the edge of the linoleum.

He hit me in the face. He held me down against my will. He humiliated me in front of my friends. He lied to my face. He stole my money. He cheated on me. He made me cry every night. He said he wanted to burn my house down. He threatened to call the police. He threatened me if I called the police. He spread lies. He broke my trust. He left without saying good-bye. He told me not to take it so personally. He was only joking.

Sharp pain feels familiar. Like a kiss from a stranger when you aren’t expecting it. Jolting your eyes wide, pulse high, you stare intently into your coffee mug willing your feet to move.

He grabbed me in the street and screamed in my face. He raised his hand threatening me in the mall. He yelled at me until I backed down. He said I sounded just like my mother. He told me there was something wrong with me. He told me it was my fault. He told me I was lucky to have him. He told me what others were saying about me. He used all my secrets against me.

White knuckles, bloody tongue. Catatonic in the morning light edging across the floor. The frigid malignancy palpitating righteous rage through your veins. It’s too late for breakfast, it’s too late for lots of things.

He wouldn’t look at me. He waited up for me. He wouldn’t let me say no. He wouldn’t let me say yes. He said it was sexy when I was angry. He said I was the only woman who made him feel like a man. He called me a slut. He called me a whore. He called me a bitch. He called me hysterical. He said that he loved me. I thought he did too.

Hood up, eyes down, head full of angry wasps. Beat the pavement into submission. Fear your own fear. Practice smiling. Dark circles under your eyes give you away anyways. There is no use pretending to be fine.

The prodigal daughter ready to grind away another day away between your teeth.

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