And I’ve held my tongue for so long but a slashed wound comes pouring out and so much of what I’ve written about is pain – and so much of what I care about is injustice – and here at this point in time the two shall meet. Wrongdoing colliding with undoing.
It felt civil to remain silent; it felt strong to temper anger; felt dignified to deny retribution. Yet cataclysmic tides wash over and fill nostrils with the stinging reminder that we are but salt water.
We are but flesh and bone.
We are but heat and momentum.
We are but our burning desires, our deepest pains, our buried shames, our wounds, our scars, our emissaries, our dependents, our pupils, our by-products.
I birthed you a second birth, a more painful birth cut not from belly but bleeding heart, and you grew and milked my wide-eyed admiration – soaked yourself through with my dizzying view of the universe from a 5′1″ perspective. Yes, things look so big from down here.
Even little boys with the right amount of distance.
I granted you the chance of compassion, of decency, of honor. And, bon voyage Fall tour dates, the sand has fallen through the hourglass. Your time is up. Here we are arriving at the truth.
It didn’t have to come to this.
You left what you had always been asking for for a secret I shall never tell. Gave yourself up to the other side. Couldn’t come back from white rabbit realities. And here I was. 40+ hours a week on the clock and drained to nothing but apathy at the end of all your lies. How could anyone care past crumpled bills in the bottom of the trash bin?
You deny me what is mine.
What you have taken from me is my deepest sense of self, of belonging in this world, of all I have to offer. A view of this complicated place that argues strength and purpose and knighthood to young women. That defends they are Divine. That they are above this earth, connecting infinitely to eternity;
Sacrosanct.
Something I have understood since birth; something I have written about since ‘13. Something I gifted you deeming you worthy. What you slander with every mic spoken into.
For those wondering where to find the facts dig no deeper than the dirt of our beginnings. Buried here is Goddess – swollen at the hips. She presented such a threat even then. It took so much to overtake her. It took Bibles, and Torah and myths and legends and small men with big armies and sharp swords. But she lies dormant beneath the sands of time, resting with open eyes, watching as we evolve; waiting for us to realize our humanity.
Read: The Chalice and the Blade.
These ideas are not new. They are not mine. They are not anyone’s. They are the truth at the bottom of your stomach bile. They are the chains holding together your DNA. All we can do is learn.
And to say it is all in the name of love – ha! – to say that it is all to honor Her [The Feminine] – Can’t you feel her temper boiling? Can’t you feel that rumbling beneath your feet?
You have taken something that is not yours and have passed it off as another’s. Your perfectly planned PR partnership. Your simple syrup love: Easy to swallow and light to lift. The Universe has already begun to balance itself out. Can you feel that rumbling beneath your feet? The heat warming your soles? There is no avoiding retribution.
You and your pack of peasants have tried to silence a writer. Attempted to douce legal jargon across my First Amendment and set it ablaze. Well know, yes, you have set it ablaze. Yes, you have set it ablaze.
And, as healing is a process also know,
That this only the beginning.
P.S. There’s More
- The Art of Healing Part II
- A reader asks why she keeps writing about her ex
- Nomi investigates her Love Inheritance