I I never threw plates.
Never screamed until my throat cracked.
Never punched a wall,
though God knows I wanted to.
My rage was polite.
Tidy.
Well-dressed.
It sat with its legs crossed,
biting its tongue until it bled.
They told me anger was ugly—
unfeminine,
ungrateful,
unwanted.
So I swallowed it whole,
like a bitter pill
with no cure.
It didn't go away.
It just learned how to hide.
Behind smiles that hurt.
Behind apologies I didn't owe.
Behind silence that screamed in my chest.
Some days,
it leaks out—
in clenched jaws,
shaking hands,
a laugh that sounds too sharp
to be joy.
This is not a tantrum.
This is the war I never got to fight.
The fire I was never allowed to name.
The child in me who deserved to say:
"That wasn't fair. That hurt. I'm still angry."
And maybe she still is.
