OverExposed

They say anger is red. Red leaves evidence. But white? White is blinding. The details disappear. The damage doesn't. I've been overexposed my entire fucking life. Got a master's in the mathematics of a man's mood, Calculate the risk before I make a damn move. Read his jaw, read the threat he never says, Keys between my fingers, mapping exists in my head. He calls it paranoia. I call it pattern recognition. A woman's "no" becomes the start of negotiation. "What was she wearing? Why was she there? Why didn't she leave?" They put the victim on the stand, then disbelieve. I've swallowed so much anger I can taste it when I breathe, Made a career of keeping people comfortable with me. I'm the diplomat of damage, hostage keeping peace, Holding everybody else together, disappearing piece by piece. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. She's the calendar, the counselor, the cook and the cleaner, Passwords, appointments, nobody has seen her. He says, "Just ask me," adding management to chores, Like the house he lives in is a favor done for her. He takes the kids out once; everybody calls him great. She does it every day, gets blamed when they are late. "Who raised him? Where's his mother?" Where the hell's his dad? Fatherhood's a medal; motherhood's a test we can't pass. The marriage fails? She's to blame. He leaves? She's unattractive. At home her cooking's duty; in a restaurant it's prestige. it's Women's work until there's money and a title to be had. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. We can put a probe on Mars and make machines that can think, But a woman who says she's hurting, gets told it's in her head. "You're stressed. You're anxious. Lose some weight. It's just your age." Her medical chart's a monument to unexplained pain. They ask for numbers, something tidy, one to ten; I count the plans I canceled and the hours I won't get again. I don't need a lecture on the pain I can withstand; I need a fucking doctor who believes me where I stand. Men who've never met me legislate what choices I can make. They draw a line across a map; I feel it underneath my skin. Call it public policy. I call it a broken system. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. Be a virgin, be a vixen, be ambitious, never cold, Be experienced but innocent, be young when you get old. Skinny but with curves, build muscle but stay small, Love yourself, now buy the cure for everything that's wrong. They manufacture insecurity, then sell us self-respect; He can want a hundred women; she wants pleasure, she's a whore. They shame the girl on OnlyFans, never shame the ones who pay. She wears the scandal, he gets privacy and silence; She's judged for what she sells, he's absolved for what he's buying. They steal her face, make naked fakes, call violation fun; The laughter stops when the victim is someone's daughter. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. He's assertive, she's aggressive. He's decisive, she's a threat. He's promoted for potential; she's still proving her success. He leaves at five for kids, they call him a family man; She leaves at five, they question her commitment to the plan. Wage gap, pink tax, pension years she'll never get back, Plus a second shift awaiting when she's finished with the first. Can't meditate away a workload unequal by design; Can't self-care through a system that keeps billing us for time. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. I don't want a war with men; I know it's not all men. I want the freedom to be human, not a prize, not a goddess. Not a smaller version of a man, not a womb to politicize, Not an unpaid lifeline disguised as someone's wife. Stop calling me resilient to excuse another cut. Stop praising me for carrying what you refuse to pick up. I want a doctor who will listen, a partner who can see, A night I walk unguarded, and a life that belongs to me. I want boys who learn that tenderness takes courage, not disgrace, I don't want to be admired for surviving. I want survival to stop being the most impressive thing about me. White rage. White rage. I don't see red, I see nothing. Overexposed from all the hell I was told to contain. No explosion, no flames, just holes inside my brain. This is one of three White Rage pieces, which will be raising funds for Blue Dragon, a nonprofit that rescues and supports children and adults from trafficking and exploitation, and provides education and job pathways, education and cyber safety training. Read more about them at https://www.bluedragon.org/ . White Rage triptych was created by Rachel Suzanne Tien Wood because she is filled with so much rage.