If I was female rage madonna would hate me.
My mouth would foam green Drano and my nails would curl with yellowing tips. If I was female rage id collapse to melancholy women with guitars.
I find myself turning inward into this so-called "female rage". I find myself naked in front of self-appointed righteousness. Being female rage is not the act itself- but rather holding yourself back from the urge to be reckless. In my observation of women, I found that the most collected women hold the most resentment from the need to break. They push the brick wall back until there nails are chipped and bitter. The arms feel weightless in numbness. They crack in fragments, they crave female rage. They redo their lipstick. They find themselves turning inward.
If the female range was my closet, it would be freshly open nylons. press on nails, melted lipstick and a fraying sweater. my female rage would look like a nicotine packet. Yours may look like rehab, church, or your muse.
ill attach myself to any version I still get from you.
