“She Holds My Rage Like Ritual”

She doesn’t flinch

when I unravel.

Doesn’t offer

“calm down”

or “look on the bright side.”

She offers

a match.

“Let’s set fire to what hurts you,”

she says.

And suddenly,

I remember:

I’m not alone in the burn.

This is what feminist friendship feels like:

No mirrors, only windows

No envy, only elevation

No shrinking to fit, only expanding to hold

She knows the pitch

of my tired laugh.

Knows when my smile is code

for “I’m cracking.”

And she doesn’t fix it—

she stays.

We talk in code:

“Did he apologize, or did he just not want to lose you?”

“You’re not too much; they’re too small.”

“Rest is a form of resistance. Nap without guilt.”

We share books, bail money, lipsticks, links to therapy,

screenshots of texts that made us wince,

and voice notes that sound like scripture.

When the world says:

Be quieter.

Be prettier.

Be grateful.

Be less.

She says:

Be whatever the hell you want. I’ll back you.

And she does.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

We don’t need the same pain

to understand each other.

We need the same willingness

to hold space.

Sometimes, we don’t talk about the trauma.

We just share fries.

Or sit in silence.

Or blast angry women with guitars

and scream-sing into the traffic.

We have loved women before—

not just romantically.

Not always erotically.

But always deeply.

We have held hands

through breakups and breakthroughs.

We have taught each other

how to choose ourselves,

without apology.

Our friendship is not

an accessory.

It’s not a side plot.

It is central to survival.

It is revolutionary

in a world

that teaches women to compete

instead of connect.

It is sacred.

We’re not perfect.

We fight.

We ghost.

We misunderstand.

But we come back.

Because we’re not just friends.

We’re mirrors,

midwives,

muses,

and megaphones

for each other’s magic.

And when the world gets loud,

too loud—

she turns to me and says:

“You’ve done enough for now. I’ll carry the weight today.”

And she does.

And I do the same

tomorrow.

This—

this is what it means

to be held

by a sisterhood

that doesn’t fold

when the fire starts.

It fans it.