rage baby

I was nine with rage in my fists, rage in my stomach, rage in my silence. Don't tell me to be grateful. Don't tell me "at least" I was safe. Where was safety when I was six rocking my baby brother back to sleep with cracked lips and a shaking voice? I wanted to scream into cabinets, break plates just to feel the crash, just to make noise loud enough to match what I felt inside. Everyone said "you're so strong." But strength isn't a compliment when it's just another word for "alone." They said they saved us. But I didn't want saving- I wanted a mother who stayed, a father who didn't hit, a world that didn't shatter every time I got used to the light. So I blamed the ones who showed up. My grandparents, with their quiet house and quiet prayers, like that could fix the noise in my head. I hated them for breaking the spell, even if it was poison. Even if they were right. Because love, even broken love, was all I knew.