Wounded and Wild
The Sacred Rage of the Beautiful Woman
They expect you to cry quietly.
To break softly. To weep in corners and heal in secret.
Because when a woman is beautiful, they want her pain to be pretty, too.
Delicate. Palatable.
Contained.
But what happens when the beautiful woman refuses?
When she bleeds loudly?
When she roars instead of whispers?
When the ache turns volcanic and she no longer apologizes for the earthquake beneath her skin?
That’s when they call her crazy. Hysterical. Dangerous.
But it’s not madness.
It’s sacred rage.
A fury forged in every moment she smiled when she wanted to scream.
Every time she gave love and was handed silence.
Every time her softness was taken as surrender.
Every time she swallowed her truth just to make someone else comfortable.
There’s nothing more terrifying than a woman who finally decides to feel it all.
Who lets the pain move her, instead of consuming her.
Who takes her tears and turns them into gasoline.
Because the truth is…some women don’t survive heartbreak.
They become something else entirely.
Wounded and wild.
Beautiful and brutal.
A soft storm with no intention of asking for permission anymore.
And still, she is divine.
Because her rage is not reckless.
It is ritual.
It is the altar where she buries her “good girl” mask and resurrects as something holy.
You see, rage isn’t the opposite of beauty.
It’s the part of it they never wanted you to access.
The part that isn’t here to please, but to reclaim.
The part that doesn’t sit pretty in someone else’s fantasy.
The part that sets fire to anything that ever made you small.
So when the world tells you to calm down, to be less dramatic, to be nice…
look them in the eye and don’t flinch.
Because a woman who is wounded and wild is not broken.
She is just done being quiet about the ways she was betrayed.
And that kind of woman?
You don’t save her.
You watch her rise.
