ribbons wrapped around my rage

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ᥫ᭡

they built me from hush and honey,

fed me silence dressed as virtue,

taught me sweetness as survival—

as if purity were the price of love.

as if obedience could earn safety.

i was not born gentle.

i was made that way—

sculpted into symmetry,

disciplined into daffodils

by a mother who only smiled when i was quiet, who wrapped ribbons around my rage

until it forgot how to scream.

but rage remembers.

it pools in the corners of my spine,

sleeps behind my teeth, breathes beneath my silk blouses and perfect posture.

it is not new.

it is not loud.

it is refined.

i‘ve smiled through too many violences,

softened myself for hands that did not know how to hold,

for eyes that only saw a reflection—

not a person.

i am not your angel.

i am not your peace.

i am not your delicate thing.

i am the fire that learned patience.

the storm that grew out its hair

and sat cross-legged at the dinner table,

making no mess—

but dreaming of knives.

there are ravens in my chest now.

patient. watching.

they do not screech.

they remember.

my sweetness was not virtue.

it was fear in costume.

a fear so old it knew my name before i learned to speak it.

and now?

now i am shedding that sugar.

letting the velvet burn.

letting my voice arrive in thunder.

now i want ruin.

now i want teeth.

i want to break every rule they braided into my hair.

i want to spit out every “yes” i swallowed to stay adored.

i want to be sharp and godless.

to unlearn the choreography of politeness.

to let my fury feast.

to make the ground shake when i say no.

i will not heal quietly.

i will not be palatable.

i will not be pure.

— Lux