House Feminist
3 min readApr 8, 2019


What do I do with all this anger?

Let it seep out into everything you do.

Let it sour anything you taste.

Let it creep slowly into your friendships.

Let it sprout as roots beneath every grudge.

Let it swell like an unexpected wave when someone lets you down in some invisible way they probably never sensed existed.

Let it vibrate in your vocal chords when a child is on your last nerve.

Let it surprise you when you hear it escape your throat.

Let it echo off your eardrums when you cringe in response to a song that used to mean something.

Let it ruin the shows and places and foods and movies and clothes and touchstones of your day you once loved.

Let it wake you up at night and fill the room the same way darkness does, leaving no corner untouched until you wonder how the walls don’t burst open.

Let it disguise itself as self-loathing, turn it and twist it in on yourself until your stomach is knotted in pain.

Let it be cast on to the world, until it’s the ink printed on every card stacked against you.

Let it become the legs every regret you harbor stands upon.

Let it wash over you in an instant, an electric shock that leaves your body trembling and your nerve endings scorched like overdone crème brulee.

Let it anchor your heart to the bottom of your stomach, dragging across the black sandy floor every time your heart tries to get anywhere.

Let it come out in throbbing pain behind your eyes that brings you to your knees and blurs your vision and sometimes stays for days.

Let it sting as it forms droplets at the corners of your eyes that well up and rain down at the least convenient times.

Let it keep you company when you push everyone else away.

Let it recede into cobwebbed crevices of your mind, tucked away in a neatly labeled box that you can always sort out later.

Let it drown in the warm wash of a pill.

Try to hold it in your hands like a frantic gerbil gnawing and scratching against your tightly knit fingers.

I tried to set you free, but you just came back. I tried to give you a home but you ran away. I have tried to repurpose you and contain you and pacify you and amplify you and serve you and use you for good.

I don’t want to be angry anymore. I don’t want to be consumed by the empty sadness left in your wake. I want to be free. I want to be free of you, of this feeling, of this cycle. I want to rebuild without the threat of the same hurricane tearing it all down every time the wind blows.

What do I do with this fucking anger.