Angry, and looking for reassurance that I am allowed to be, in a way that only women do.

There is always magma beneath the stable ground, there is always a new volcano forming in the sea. I will build a world, raw and hot and sharp and pure, and you will never step foot there. I will grow it black inside the ocean waves, the rising of a bright basalt. Green for your envy, the kelps that grow to trees, white for your fear, the oysters that grow limbs and eyes and mouths. When it rains, I will be fed, and you’ll be gone.