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Respite of rage
The Rage
When is it time to stop being nice to those who would have us be their lesser? When are we allowed to let go of being the better person and to embrace being angry? When do we get to be the devils they claim we are, and burn their sad, empty churches to the ground, so that something new, something vibrant can actually grow?

I am ANGRY. I seethe and rage. I carry wrath and fury.

And I must bottle it up, lest dusty relics click their tongues and wag their fingers.

I am HURT. I bleed and cry out. I carry pain and despair.

And it must be ignored, that we might fight with logic and honesty and smiles, while they spit lies in our face and tell us it is for the children.

My children will be stronger than any damn church.

I want a day to celebrate my anger and my wounds. I want to leave all the niceties at the door, bar the enemy on the outside, and rail against the fact that we must WIN what they have always had. I want to taste my blood to know that it is real. Because this is tiring, this struggle, this war, this bombardment of our very characters.

Then, once we have stopped our howling, we can open the doors again. We will invite the enemy to tea, and we will speak their archaic language of abused stones, and we will try to ignore the shadow cast across their fading faith by the light of true progress.