text:

why is my rage not righteous like yours?
why? why? why?
why must i be slow to my anger, why must i be the fool when i give in? when i am human, when i break easily beneath the weight of my existence? the existence you gave to me, that you forced into my hands?
why must i be soft? why must i have smooth edges and tender bones?
i want to let this out.
all of this
this
this
heat. fire. rage.
i know it displeases you. i know you dislike it. i know it angers you, this fury that rests in my blood cells, and i keep it quiet for you. i push it down, to the last shelf in my chest, tucked away behind the cobwebs and dust, behind the forgotten memories of what i no longer have, of what i no longer covet. i push it down,
down
down
until you cannot see it
and you cannot hear it.
but i see it
i hear it.
it hasn't gone away. it lingers, and it grows, and it curdles like spoiled milk. and it's
mine.
why is my rage not righteous like yours?
i am yours. you sculpted me with your hands, you put time into the creation of me, and i cannot feel this.
you will not let me feel this.
my rage is wrath. my rage is cracking branches in the heat of a wildfire, the snapping of fingers that refuse to let go. my rage is human and holy, soul and sin.
and i won't feel it.
for you.
your rage is destruction and beginnings. your rage is rapture. plague. six days and ten generations, select and precise and intentional. your rage is divine and cruel and uncaring, and you are allowed it. it is permitted. it is respects, expected, and longed for.
why is my rage not righteous like yours?
won't you give it to me?
give me your rage.
i am yours.
give me your rage.
i beg of you.
strike me. smite me. shower my body with your rage until i cannot feel my own. let it consume me, let it destroy me from the inside out.