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She was told anger was bad.
So she stepped away from it—
first in fear,
then in habit.

Her grandfather shamed it out of her.
Her mother turned away from it.

So where could it go?

How could I feel
what she wouldn’t,
what he couldn’t?

How could I trust my body
when everyone around me
was trying to escape theirs—
projecting guilt,
hardening into something that looked like desire
but wasn’t?

The righteous grew louder.
Fervent. Certain.

They struck with conviction,
then asked for grace
while the bruises were still forming,
while the wounds waited—
raw, unhealed—
to be opened again.

Again.
And again.

Until something in her refused.

Until she turned toward it.

Her anger—
not ugly,
not wrong,
but ignited.

A living piece of her,
long exiled.

Burning,
but no longer distant.
Fierce,
but no longer shamed.

Unseen,
but finally untouched by punishment.

And when she claimed it,
she did not become less—

she became whole.

Now she walks differently.

With the weight of her life
returned to her—
addressed to her heart,
her mind,
her own becoming.

And when she hears the distant cries of others,
she does not turn away.

She knows them.

Because she listens
not just to their words—

but to their anger.

And in that,
she hears the truth
they have not yet learned to keep.