Makitia Thompson Poet Narrative

Let Them Call It Rage

Let them call it rage
when I bare my teeth in silence
or scream without needing permission.
Let them say I’m bitter, bruised,
too much, too loud,
a wildfire when they wanted a breeze.

They named my fury “ugly”
because it cracked the porcelain of their comfort,
because it didn’t ask
to sit quietly in a corner,
because it came dressed in all the wrong colors,
red like blood, not pink like politeness.

Let them shrink from me.
Let them whisper when I pass
that I’ve changed, that I’m colder now,
that I carry myself like a knife.
They never asked why I had to sharpen myself
just to walk safely through the day.

Let them call it rage
when I say no without a smile,
when I stop explaining the hurt
just to make them feel better.

This isn’t a tantrum.
It’s reclamation.
It’s the sound of centuries unraveling
from my throat,
one scream at a time.

Let them tremble at the truth I carry.
Let them stare at the flames I became.
I was never soft enough for their comfort,
only silent enough for their control.

But silence didn’t save me.
It never does.
So now,
I roar.

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Justin Bordner January 17, 2026 at 6:49 AM The Lioness understands the scent prescripted by your damp desperation, arrogance has a way of smelling like acrid meat, you encroach in her domain because you want a pet, but what you need is a zero point humbling, she has self control like a steady paw on cracking ice, she does not crave the pathetic, she savors the ethic of ambush tactic, you are in her zone, unsafe in your ignorance, when she pursues she punishes...J.A.B.