Outrage

It takes just a moment to swallow.

A split second to accept.

I grasp the cup that holds a liquid my insides know all too well.

I squeeze until my palm is the blueprint for the glass blower,

who will construct an identical situation for another.

I’ve had a mouthful of this before.

My expectations are filling the brim of my mind.

This time will be no different.

I feel them waiting for me to touch the glass to my lips.

Pretend I am a virgin to microaggressions.

Little do they know; this is not my first nor my last.

I could say no.

I could protest to this poison.

The bartender pours me a cup each time.

Wondering when I’ll fall over.

Wondering If I’ll fold from the dirty deals I’ve been dealt over and over.

I’m tired of this delusional act of asking for consent.

I know the consequence of holding my ground in a room

where I have no leg to stand on.

Always testing my limits.

Always thirsting for my outrage.

They wait for the Angry Black women to emerge from her slumber.

I raise the glass as the future flashes before my eyes

The social media posts.

The marches

My image on the news

Realizing what my part in this is.