Say It To My Face

Why can’t I be angry too? Why does rage look wrong on me but righteous on you? You slam your fists — it’s called “bad days.” I raise my voice — I’m “lost” or “misplaced.” You push. You pull. You bruise. You bend. Then walk away clean like you didn’t offend. You call them “reasons.” You call them “mistakes.” Dress up the damage in pretty escape. But when I crack? I’m the problem. When I snap? I’m the threat. When I react to disrespect — I’m the one they won’t forget. “Calm down.” “Don’t be dramatic.” “Why are you always so automatic?” As if my anger’s some disease, Not a wound that didn’t leave. You get to rage. I get to cope. You get forgiveness. I get told to hope. Hope it fades. Hope I grow. Hope I learn to let it go. But pain doesn’t evaporate just because it’s inconvenient. And silence isn’t strength — it’s just obedience. You burn bridges? You’re “misunderstood.” I set a boundary? I’m “no good.” You shout? It’s passion in your veins. I shout? It’s “someone restrain.” Tell me why your fire is gold and mine is shame? Why your temper has a story and mine’s a blame? I swallowed screams until they turned to rust. Turned my fury into dust. Smiled wide. Adjusted trust. Played polite because I must. But I’m done rehearsing softness for people who never were. Done shrinking my thunder so they feel secure. If anger’s ugly when worn by me, then maybe ugly’s what I’ll be. Because I’d rather be loud than slowly erased. Rather be fire than framed and disgraced. So yes — I’m angry. And no — I won’t mute it. You don’t get to light the match and then tell me to cool it. If their storms are allowed to rise, mine will too — no compromise. So say it to my face. Why can’t I be angry too?