(For the rage that should burn but only thickens.)

I eat my anger in spoonfuls,
thick and golden.
It sticks to my teeth, clogs my throat.
I swallow every unspoken thing—
the words I chewed too long,
the thoughts that dissolved on my tongue.

They say honey never rots,
and neither does rage—
it only sits, crystallizing in the dark.
It seeps from the walls,
from the spaces between my ribs
where I have packed it away,
pressed it down, swallowed it whole.

The women before me swallowed their own,
let it ferment in their bellies
until they birthed daughters
with fire in their veins
and silence in their mouths.

I bite my tongue until it bleeds sugar,
until my words drip golden and polite,
until no one hears the buzzing under my breath.
I swallow, again and again.

I tell myself this is survival.
That this is how we keep going.
But inside, the honey thickens, solidifies.
My stomach sours, my teeth ache,
and still—
still, I swallow.