Her Name is Anger

She stops.



She won't go another step.



She throws herself backward onto the floor.



Her face becomes red with anger,
her eyes watery with fierce passion.




She begins to scream.





She kicks the floor with her heals,
feeling the impact's vibration
in her toes, her shins, her knees, her spine.

Gripping her hands tighter,
her nails dig into her palms.
She beats the floor with the edge of her fists.

Kicking,
punching,
writhing on the floor,
she dreams of shaking the world.
She dreams of waking it up,
opening its eyes,
making it see.
See its flaws,
its imperfections,
its injustice.

Screaming,
crying,
losing her voice,
she wishes that the world would listen.
She wishes it had ears
to hear
the pain,
the sorrow,
the suffering.

She longs for wings to fly away.
If only pumping her legs and flailing her arms
would cause the wings in her soul to burst through her skin.


Then she could fly away.