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The Nature of Anger



‘no’

might anger the public

but

it will make you free as an eagle


— if no one has ever told you, your freedom is more important than diluting your emotions to get rid of the anger.


A bloody egg yolk. A burnt hole spreading in a sheet. An enraged rose threatened to bloom. My mouth closes up, tight, struggling to harness the nuclear forces bubbling in me from the inside. I look in the mirror, eyes red and glistening, full of a monstrosity I cannot let escape. Looking into my reflection frightens me, for fear of finding a face of evil that I would not be able to recognise. Everything comes down to this moment, in which I cannot control myself. Set the stage, cue the dialogue. A fragile person’s state of mind is cracking. So put me in a chair, lock me up, throw away the keys. I am going to scream. My soul slides away.


it’s february but I don’t feel it yet; wake up in a ravenous state of mind // consumed // dreaming of a house with no running water.


On social media, we read about the virtues of being “soft”. Delicate fairy wings and eyes made of morning dew. Butterflies flutter through a forest and a voice sings a melody of honey. This is our image of goodness, of purity — angels with aether flowing through their veins. No rustic blood or human scratches. “Be the bigger person”, they scold. “Don’t pick fights. Why can’t we all just be friends?” Pacifism is always the answer. Keep your demands to yourself, No one likes a hysteric. Feel all the emotions you want, long as they are acceptable. seeing as they don’t affect the day-to-day lives of humans. Neutrality, peace, devil’s advocate, both sides have a story, everything is drilled through our heads again and again. “Opinionated” has been made into an insult. Don’t raise your voice, because that’s disrespecting your elders. Don’t argue, that causes disruptions. The beating drums in my heart urging me to express my rage, it eventually fades away as I am conditioned to become another passive, pacifist member of society.


the water is clean but my wrists are stained with disappointment

my eyes say pain, my anger remains an unlit match

my desires are a paintbrush without a painter

as rocks remain a burden in my pockets.




Sometimes I get scared that maybe I do not deserve kindness or appreciation, because I cannot follow these rules of obedience. I’m always yelling and screeching my words sentence after sentence. I am a controversy and a half, certainly not the image of softness. Is radical anger contradictory with softness? Is logic a contradiction to emotion? Am I toxic? Thoughts bubble and fill around my head. I think of myself as intimidating and arrogant. I am stuck inside a box I am constantly trying to break out of. I don’t want to be interpreted as weak, yet when I raise my voice suddenly I am horrid and empty and mean. Others look to me as a source of strength and resilience. Around them, I worry that I will not be able to maintain my facade of resilience. I am like sand, being stepped on daily and eager to reclaim my shape again. I am not angry as a choice; I am angry out of necessity. Forces push against me like an ocean tide. I must fight back, I must be angry. Tenderness is not the answer.


“bitch.”

I used to be crushed under the weight of words like that,

I used to wither, you know.

now I wear insults like jewels on a crown

angered, I rise with blood on my lips and knuckles.


I believe in radical kindness. Not the hollow, graphic design kindness which is turned into an advertisement. I believe in the ugly kind of kindness, The one that stays quiet and stands up for others, the kind that is easy to talk to and shares knowledge with everyone. The kind which says, yes, sometimes I am angry. Sometimes, I will scream and be uncontrollable. Gasoline ignited. Dear world, anger is important, anger can be used to love. Anger is radical and helpful. Anger and kindness are friends. Softness is not synonymous with weakness. So be strong, cry out at the top of your lungs, live with the soul of a thunderbird. Live with purpose and passion. We are not fairies, We are humans, dirty and glorious, and we should be proud of it from sea to shining sea.


the rocks I take out of my pockets

now line the soil of the garden

when I didn’t need to be weighed down

I start growing into a flower in heaven.



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