I wrote “I’m Mad” in the long quiet after too many half-swallowed arguments. This poem came from letting that slow, private anger finally speak without softening its edges for anyone, including me.
I’m Mad
I am furious with the distance—
this invisible thief
that wears no face
yet lays its hands on you
without consequence.
I curse the sunlight
for worshipping your skin in gold,
for draping itself over you
like it has earned that right.
And the rain—
I despise the rain most of all,
how it dares to fall for you,
each drop a quiet confession
I cannot make.
READ NEXT: In Sand
I wrote this in the quiet after a long season of swallowing my own fire. If you hear a pulse in it, it’s the sound of me finally letting anger stand up in the light, untrimmed and unapologetic.
— Author’s Note: I wrote ‘I’m Mad’ when I finally stopped translating my rage into something palatable. Letting the anger stay sharp on the page felt like admitting I believed my own hurt, that it deserved ink instead of excuses. If it trembles, it’s only because telling the truth out loud still feels dangerous—and necessary.
