I'm mad.

I'm mad.
I'm mad that when I talk about important things they roll their eyes.
I'm mad that I'm a bitch for having opinions,
or boring for being a
(stupid)
(shallow) 
(unambitious) 
girl.
I'm mad they get nervous that I'm a woman;
and that I'm crazy;
and that I'm poor;
and smart. 
I'm mad that I've always been a little too tall;
a little too loud.
That I'm awkward, 
and I grew up without a dad. 
I'm mad that I don't know what it's like to control my emotions, 
and that people like me are the excuses 
in a 
(fascist)
(ableist) 
(capitalist)
(propaganda-fuled)
(racist) 
society.
I'm mad my dad beat me; 
my boyfriend beat me;
my nation beats me; 
I beat myself,
and deserve it. 
I'm mad that I'm in love, 
and that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
I'm mad that I'm out of cigarettes, 
and that my coffee went cold, 
and that they're too good for me. 
I'm mad I'm tooth-rattlingly alone, and scared.
but mostly I'm just tired.