sort of a vent, but in a poem. * i am not an object, a piece of art, or something to be poked and prodded at. i'm a fire fueled with rage. i /am/ rage. my girlhood, stolen pathetically. i grit my teeth and bite my tongue, stopping words that dare to slip between my lips. is it my mother's rage? her mother's? it's mine. i am the holder. the world looks beyond me, but i stand tall. it seeps into my skin, but doesn't stain me. i am proud, i am me. nothing in this world can stop me. my anger powers on. my soul, outraged. the first blood i spill is from clenching my fists together, crescent moons in my palms. i can be girl and woman. i am female in my thoughts and feelings. a larger being, one in hot flames. feminine rage.
