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“God, how painful it is, being angry.”

— Simone de Beauvoir, tr. by Justin O’Brien, from “The Woman Destroyed,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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“…how much rage was seething inside me.”

— Margaret Atwood, from “The Testaments,” released c. September 2019

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“It occurred to her to wonder if this was what growing up meant, to continuously find yourself in situations that you didn’t feel remotely prepared to handle.”

— Katie Cotugno, Top Ten

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“I open my mouth. I want to say: I’m breaking, and I need someone to hold me together. But no sound comes out.”

— Beth Revis, A Million Suns (via weltenwellen)

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think I’m supposed to want to live but mostly I want to be forgotten. I think freedom might just be another word for disappearance.

— Jody Chan, from “Elegy for the Pre-Packaged Pie I Ate on March 14, 2018,” published in Hot Metal Bridge

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my anger is not beautiful. it is cold and biting, bitter, all teeth. a wounded dog. i am desperate. thats enough to make me something close to deadly

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That severe mood shift that makes you want to hurl fucking glass across the room at the wall because you’re suddenly SO ANGRY and there’s NOTHING YOU CAN DO

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“It’s easier than you would think / to leave & never be found.”

— Laura Villareal, from “Boiling Puffins,” published in Waxwing (via lifeinpoetry)

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Lucille Clifton, from The Collected Poems of L. C.; “Leukemia As White Rabbit,”

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You ever just sit and realize how fucking angry you are like why do I have so much damn anger, my whole body is just fuckin shaking with such an ugly rage and I can’t get rid of it

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I do not regret my body

but I regret the hands of most

who have touched it.

— Kayleb Rae Candrilli, from “Transgender Heroic: All This Ridiculous Flesh,” published in The Normal School

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“My anxious heart is eating up my body, eating up my nerves, eating up my brain.”

— Katherine Mansfield, from a diary entry featured in “Journals,” c. June 1915

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Sometimes it’s you and your iced coffee against the world

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“If I am anything, it is violence.”

— Alejandra Pizarnik, from ‘[…] Of the Silence’, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (trans. Yvette Siegert)

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Am I just being nice or am I flirting with you?? Bold of you to assume I know the difference

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“I open my mouth, hope my mother’s sad heart does not stumble drunk out of me.”

— Desireé Dallagiacomo, from Sink (via aangs)