rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i enter rooms like a storm,

wind in my hair, words on my tongue,

thunder clapping at my heels.

he is the quiet before dawn,

the earth sighing beneath gentle weight,

a river bending but never breaking

i speak in iron and certainty,

sharpen my voice to a blade

and wield it to survive.

he listens like the quietest prayer,

folds his hands over mine

and nods.

i do not know if i admire him

or fear for him.

sometimes i imagine my voice

a hammer, my presence a gale-force wind,

how much softness can withstand

before it gives way?

before quiet becomes silence?

i cry,

the weight of myself too heavy,

even for me.

he presses his hands to my face

like he is holding something precious.

his quiet steadies me,

softens me,

not into less

but into whole.

maybe strength is not the fire

but the river that embraces it

without turning to steam.

maybe we’ll withstand my fire.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

they are young,

still soft with possibility.

their laughter is untamed,

free of the weight of knowing what it should be,

what it is expected to sound like.

they run through the garden,

their bare feet digging into the dirt like it’s home,

filling the air with sound

and motion that has no purpose but to be.

they are already learning, though they do not know it.

They are learning the way the world will shape them,

the subtle whispers and the loud demands;

that a man should be strong,

that strength is measured in fists and silence,

that power is in the taking,

not the giving.

And yet.

They are not those boys.

They hold their little sister’s hand,

guide her up the slide,

their voices gentle when they speak her name.

They watch her spin,

and they laugh,

but not to claim the world.

Their laughter falls like rain,

soft, but full of growth.

someone remarks,

“such strong boys! they’ll be heartbreakers when they are older.”

the words are said in praise, but they weigh heavy.

strength is not always what it seems.

they do not flex their muscles

because they are proud of them,

they simply hold the world as it is.

they do not rush to be first

because they know that first does not mean best.

they do not fight for space

but make room for others,

for those who need it more.

their strength is quiet,

a steady hand when another falters,

a shoulder when another’s back is too weary.

i watch them,

wondering how long it will last;

this tenderness,

this lightness in their hearts.

i wonder if the world will take it from them,

like it took it from me.

will the world teach them

that they cannot be both strong and kind?

that they cannot be both brave and soft?

but for now,

they are still the boys who know how to hold the sky.

they are still learning

the strength of letting others stand beside them,

the power of lifting someone up,

of not claiming what they do not need.

and when the day is done,

and they curl into bed,

i tuck them in with the hope

that they will always remember

how it feels to hold the world with open hands,

not to claim it,

but to share it.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

raising a daughter

She is three, barefoot in the grass, spinning like the world cannot catch her.

She is all wild hair and dimpled hands, her voice loud with certainty. She does not ask for permission to exist. She does not yet know that society expects that of her.

She climbs too high, runs too fast, sings too loudly. She throws her head back when she laughs, unashamed of the space she takes up. She believes she is the moon, dragging the world in line with her gravitational pull.

And yet.

At bedtime, she holds her doll close and whispers, “She’s sad.” When her mother asks why, she shrugs. “She wants to be small.”

At the store, an old woman chuckles, “She is so beautiful!” The words mean nothing to her, but her mother’s stomach clenches. She wonders how many more times her daughter will be told that beauty is the most interesting thing about her.

At the park, she watches the boys play a game. She stands at the edge, bouncing on her toes, waiting for an invitation that never comes.

That night, she asks, “Am I pretty?” Her mother forces a smile. “You are smart, and kind, and strong.” But the question lingers between them, heavy with the weight of every woman who has ever asked it.

She is three, but she is already learning.

She is learning that when she says “No,” grown-ups sometimes laugh.

She is learning that people are softer when she smiles.

She is learning that she must say “Sorry” even when she does not know what for.

Her mother watches, afraid.

Afraid of how the world will shape her, how it will file down her edges, turn her wild laughter into polite smiles, make her believe her worth is something fragile, something given by others.

So she tells her daughter stories of brave girls and fearless women. She teaches her to climb higher, run faster, sing louder. She lets her say No and means it when she listens.

But she knows the world is waiting.

And some nights, after her daughter is asleep, she stares at the ceiling and wonders if she is strong enough to hold it back.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i am a cup they drink from

without asking if i have more to give

some days i am drained dry

a hollowed shell of the woman i was before

but then they reach for me

half-asleep, half-mine

and whisper

māmā

like a song they have always known

and suddenly

i am full again

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

the woman i was

watches me from the doorway

she is untamed and wanting

she has sharp edges

a mouth full of wild hunger

i do not tell her

that i miss her

that some nights

i dream of slipping back into her skin

but when my daughter calls for me

with a voice like first light

i step into the soft glow of morning

and let the woman i was

become the woman i am meant to be

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i do not know where i end

and they begin

their breath is my breath

their hunger my own

i disappear into them

willingly

fold myself into their laughter

let them wear my heartbeat

like a second skin

what a strange thing

to lose yourself

and feel more whole than before

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i live in a mind where pictures never bloom

a canvas where colours are lost

before they begin

i cannot summon the face of a friend

nor trace the contours of a memory

every moment slips away

like words dissolved in the quiet

a world without images

where every memory is a faint echo

i wander through days

searching for a spark of visual truth

only to find the hollowness of thought

and the slow fading

of all that was once seen

in the silence of this unpainted mind

i feel the ache of every forgotten detail

each absence a reminder

that without vision, i lose them all.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

they do not see the way I stand,

shoulders squared, eyes sharp,

ready to shield her

from a world that has never shown her mercy.

as if a sister cannot be found

after childhood

cannot be chosen in the wreckage

of womanhood

they do not see how we

have held each other up

through storms,

beginnings and endings,

through nights that swallowed us whole

they do not see the way we

pour wine and honesty

into each other’s glasses,

the way we keep each other above the waves.

they only see the way i watch her

and they put me in a glass house

tap the walls, test the air,

wait for me to confess

as if every bond i have must be weighed,

measured, dissected,

as if I cannot love

without being in love

and so i fold my hands in my lap

bite down on every tender word

and love her in silence

as sisters do.

i have stood at the gates of her sorrow,

bared my teeth at those who would wound her,

raised my voice like a sword,

cutting through silence in her defense.

i have learned the art of watching.

the flicker in her gaze,

the tightening of her breath,

ready to shield her before she even asks.

let them call me whatever they will.

let them twist my love into shapes

it was never meant to take.

i will still stand between her and the world.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

this body is a ruin,

a house weathered by storms,

walls stretched, roof sagging.

once, it was a temple;

small, contained, a shrine

to society’s approval.

i press my fingers to the soft places,

run my fingers along the silvery pink valleys

carved into my stomach, hips and thighs.

and i wonder if i will ever

feel like home again.

the mirror is unkind,

its glass whispering of loss;

my tautness gone, symmetry undone.

i remember the days before;

how my ribs were sharp,

how my stomach lay flat.

i was taught to cherish

this hollow of myself,

to love the space i did not take up.

but then—

you grew inside me,

pressed your life against my bones,

stretched me wide as the ocean,

turned my body into something vast,

something unbreakable,

something endless.

i was no longer a whisper,

but a declaration.

and now, i trace the map of my skin,

every mark a story,

every fold a love letter in flesh.

this body is not a ruin—

it is a cathedral,

holy in the way it held you,

in the way it still does.

it is a garden where life took root,

where love bloomed.

when your small hands reach for me,

when you rest your head

on the softness of my belly,

when you wrap your arms around my neck,

i know—

i was made for you.

i was meant to be lived in.

meant to be soft earth for you.

meant to love and be loved by you,

not in spite of,

but because of.

just for you.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

it was just a joke

laughter swallows the sting,

teeth press down on silence

until it tastes like obedience.

never ask why the punchline

is always the same.

forgot to call, to show up,

calls made but never returned.

remember the words once promised,

and hope they are not forgotten.

better to be easy, quiet, small,

to let love be a gift, not a given.

when the room turns sharp,

when the weight of words cuts deep,

he is still, watching, silent.

the one meant to shield, to stand,

to say enough;

but his mouth is an empty promise,

his silence another wound.

a voice rises, another disappears.

a door slams, a body folds inward,

shrinking to fit the space left behind.

love is given, then taken back.

nothing was meant that way.

too much feeling is the real crime;

too much wanting, too much needing,

too much of anything at all.

okay is a shield, a surrender,

a whispered prayer for peace.

easier than explaining,

easier than hoping

for something else.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i see her.

i see the way she grips the edges of herself,

trying not to slip away.

i tell her,

she is not small,

not crazy,

not his to destroy.

she is a storm waiting to break.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

before the wedding, they give advice

talk about everything

never go to bed angry

marriage is hard work

like folded notes pressed into your palm,

whispered warnings wrapped in bows.

you nod, you smile,

you think you understand.

but understanding comes later.

in the quiet hum of morning breath,

in the way their fingers trace the edge of your worry

without needing to ask.

it comes in the nights when marriage feels like work,

when the weight of the world

settles heavy on the bed between you.

when silence feels safer than speaking.

they don’t tell you that intimacy

isn’t just bodies tangled in sheets,

it’s the unlocked door of your mind,

the secret thoughts you never meant to say aloud,

laid bare in the dim glow of trust.

they don’t tell you that some days,

love is muscle memory,

a thing you do because you promised to,

because even in the dark,

you reach for them,

and they reach back.

and in that reaching,

you remember,

this is what lucky feels like

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

the house burned down

long before you were born.

yet they handed you

a bucket of water

and blamed you

for the ashes.

put it down.

you were never meant

to save ruins.

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

one day,

one day, you will find you again

not the ghost they have made of you

but the woman you buried deep

ready to breathe again

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

you say you are tired, just tired

but i know exhaustion from grief

when i see it

and love should not make you mourn yourself

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

you do not fight anymore

you have learned that silence

is softer than the sound of breaking

even when the breaking is inside you

-rage in reverie

[rageinreverie]

i hold my tongue until it bleeds

because you do not want saving

because love has taught you that cages

are the same as homes

-rage in reverie