I don’t get angry very 
often. It generally doesn’t 
occur to me to be offended.  I
tend to say yes, have grace, give
room for people to feel. Am I
people? Do I matter?  And
why? So many minds smarter,
more talented hands, hearts 
more acclimated to a harsh
environment. I am one
whisper in a yelling world, an
herbivore, a lavender sweater,
a stare-at-my-toes-in-my-new-shoes-
and-fall-off-the-sidewalk kind of
girl. I have trouble crying unless
I don’t and the sob-waves pound
my internal shore as they do
silently whenever anything 
suffers. That’s a lot, you know. 
And look at that. I see my
shoes and they’re sassy, purple
boots with some swagger, after
all. I can feel the groaning of the
earth through the soles of my feet 
and still paint my toenails 
blue. I can stand with my face to
the long wail of industrial 
tyranny and still hold down a
job. My heart can travel in
and out of my chest and still I
keep myself in surgery knowing
you, and her and them and us and
knowing I will be broken forever
just by the love-giving moment when
I no longer own
my self. 
And I’ll do it anyway because I
am strong. 
I am fierce. I have something to
say. Stop yelling a while and
you’ll hear.