Dear Diary,
My rage has grown inside me like a flower since I was a teen, I've clung onto it like I would a dear friend, held it and fed it on the glumest nights. I can see the reflection of it in every other woman I meet. It waits for a phrase, for a thought, for a crime, to pounce, tries to crawl right out of my throat. Oh, but I would never feed it with anyone else's tears but mine.
But you, your anger burns bright, and it is not selective, it scorches right through me. Under your steely gaze, I become a wallflower, you'll take any tears you can to ignite the fire. And when the flames reach me, the flower inside me blooms in angry red. How could you ever understand? In your tiny mind, I see through your eyes the emptiness of a dead brain, you think your anger is stronger, you think the fire will burn my flower, and because you dont ever really see, you'll never know how close that red rose is to touching the sky. And when enough of them have pushed, when enough of them have hurt us, when enough of my leaves will have wilted, when my mind breaks from the pain they cause, when I've seen enough flowers get incinerated by you insipid violence, oh then you will see, how sharp the thorns are, and in that moment I promise you, I will take all I can, burn all I can, destroy all I can, until there is nothing left of you but the wasteland you created for us.
With all the rage in my body,
Love, a woman's heart.