Of Mothers and Daughters

i finally understand female rage.

how to grit my teeth and throw my voice.   how to cry; and then scream; and then cry about screaming; and then scream over my own crying.   how to eat so little to make room for my anger.   how to memorize my reflection because it is all i will have of my mom after she dies.   how to look for myself in the pockets of hereditary self-loathing.   how to speed on the road, and cut the corners, and miss my mom; she is the gap between my speedometer and the law.   how to worship grief and grab fistfuls of my hair in prayer.   how to devour mans monstrous desires then spit them out.   how to yell at something; whether that may be the stop light, air, or my mirror.   how to convex despite my womanly nature to concave.   how to breathe so little to house the pain wenched between my youth and womanhood.   how to birth the mothers and daughters we hope to be.   how to raise the mothers and daughters we try to become.   how to kill the mothers and daughters we never became.   how to mourn the mothers and daughters we can no longer be.