For The Women’s March

I confirmed all of his worst fears.  Because even though he was an atheist, he still believed women came from the devil.  My unwillingness to sacrifice my life on the altar of our relationship was the first hint that something was horribly wrong.

And something was wrong.  I committed one mortal sin after another.  Laughing too loudly.  Going out too often.  Writing too much.  Refusing to hide my weirdness.  Refusing to live like the saintly women I knew–starving themselves until they fainted, inspiring their men with their very presence, full of gratitude and grace.

Never satisfied, angry and opinionated.  The serpent from hell had once come to chat with a woman just like me, or so I’ve been told.

Well, you can have your devil.  He crumbles before my Kali–She who can destroy the universe you’ve built with one touch.  Fear of Her is the reason you’ve tied us down and locked us away for all these centuries.

But even when we’ve been tied down with velvet ribbons and smothered in lace, She never really goes away.  At night, when I’m curled up next to him, breathing into his ear, She’s there.  Silent, but breathing with me.

Are You still asleep, my love?

 

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