What Fire Knows

They will tell you
that your anger is unbecoming.
That it makes you sharp where you should be soft,
loud where you should be silent,
dangerous where you should be good.

But listen to me—
anger is not the opposite of grace.
It is its origin story.

It is the holy spark that rises
when your worth is denied,
when your boundaries are breached,
when your spirit is asked to kneel
in rooms that should have honoured your standing.

Anger is not a flaw in your design—
it is the mechanism by which
you refuse to disappear.

It is your body remembering
what your voice forgot.
It is your blood carrying truth
faster than your mouth can shape it.

Do not fear it.

This world has taught women
to be ashamed of the storm,
to compress themselves into pleasantries,
to stitch apologies into every sentence
like we are made of bruised fruit
and borrowed time.

But there is virtue in the rising.
There is clarity in the blaze.

Anger has eyes that see through pretense,
has hands that unmake cages,
has a voice that cannot be softened
without severing something sacred.

It was anger that uncurled your fists
from the grip of what hurt you.
It was anger that helped you walk—
no, march—
away from the person who fed on your silence.

Anger is not the thing to heal from.
It is the thing that heals.

Because anger
is often the first language of self-respect.

And when they call you bitter,
shrill,
hysterical—
know that they are trying to cage
what they cannot conquer.

They are afraid.

Afraid of the woman who does not flinch.
Afraid of the woman who sets boundaries like wildfires
and dares the world to cross them.
Afraid of the woman who will not swallow
what was never meant to be digested.

This fury in you?
It is a force.

A compass.
A cleansing.
A revolution in the shape of a woman
who has finally stopped asking permission
to burn.

So burn.

And when the ash clears,
build something better
from the clarity
that only fire knows.