Oh, the RAGE I feel over this. The foggy post-traumatic haze that I've been swimming through for the past few days, buried so deep in my being that I COULDN'T FIGURE OUT WHY I COULDN'T STOP CRYING. The brave beautiful women who CONTINUE to step forward. The stories that make my hands shake, that make my mind race and my heart pound out of my chest and tell me I'm not safe,

not safe,

not safe,

and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the storm to pass.

not safe,

not safe,

not safe,

ringing in my ears even as I lie, safe and loved as I could possibly be next to my husband in bed at night. Because nighttime has been the hardest for me for the twelve years that this elephant has sat on my chest. Because nighttime is when I'm vulnerable and quiet and defenseless against the technicolor wave of memory that washes over me and leaves me shaking or

sobbing or

sweating or

squeezing the pillow so tight my fingers start to cramp or

screaming because my heart is splintered into the millions of tiny pieces that my sisters help me carry as they share their stories,

their scars,

their strength:

my sisters the statistics,

my sisters the silenced,

my sisters the survivors.

We'll let the light in through the cracks. We'll lean on each other. We'll quietly continue turning lead into gold. We'll be soft and gentle and patient with our bodies as they rile against this news, these men, the monster-in-chief. We'll persist,