To you who are lost, I say this: follow the morning star, bright burning Venus. It will lead you to the throne of holy Inanna, Queen of Heaven, intersex goddess of women and queers. Inanna ruled over ancient Sumer more than six thousand years ago and she remains today a powerful ally for all those crushed under the bootheel of oppression. Her grand temples were once staffed by transgender clergy and during her festivals people crossdressed and danced in the streets. A goddess of decadence and bloodshed, sensuality and sovereignty, generosity and volatility, Inanna understands intimately what it means to contain multitudes. The Queen of Heaven surrendered everything to face her own death in the underworld and return transformed; she can guide you through the darkness of your own metamorphosis and into the light of rebirth. Call on Inanna and let her inspire you with her ferocious will. Let her empower you with her confidence. Let her place a sword in your hand and teach you to fight for your freedom, for your future, for the person you are destined to become. Call on exalted Inanna, lost one, and trust her to lead you to victory.
Tag Archives: feminism
I thought you should know – I found her. The girl you introduced me to all those years ago when I was still so young and confused and full of unfamiliar longing. I had loved her from the first time I read your words, after all, and it broke my heart to imagine her alone somewhere out in the wide, dangerous world, her genius smothered by society’s cruelty. I wasn’t quite so foolish as to imagine myself her rescuer, her charming prince come to wake her with a single kiss, but I knew I could help. I could hold her hand and read her words and remind her she wasn’t alone. Yet when I clawed my hands into the cold clay of that unmarked crossroads grave I discovered no body beneath and so I went looking for her. Took me almost a decade and countless bottled letters thrown into countless seas but I did it. I found her. Shakespeare’s Sister.
She wasn’t dead, not yet, but slowly drowning in a world hostile to every aspect of her being. After all, you need more to ensure your survival than a room of your own to write in when those in power are trying to legislate you out of existence, and all the education in the world can’t protect you from the bigotry enshrined in every facet of society. The country which purported to be her home hated her for being ‘too much’. Her body that I would find so beautiful was too curvy, too muscular, too brown and yet not brown enough. Her mind that would engage and challenge mine was too clever, too literal, too depressed and prone to dwelling on… unladylike topics. Her heart that would capture mine instantly was too queer, too empathetic, too honorable and honest for a society built on cold hard capitalism. She asked too many questions; she dreamed strange dreams. She refused to conform to any expectation or stereotype and you know, Miss Virginia, how much they hate when we won’t conform.
She was fighting to stay afloat, though, despite all the people determined to drag her down, and in her struggles she grabbed onto one of my bobbing bottled notes. That’s how we met, trading words over a digital ocean until we worked up the courage to meet in person. Then it was the U-Haul, wedding rings, a home of our own where such maligned creatures as feral cats, traumatized dogs, and unapologetic queers could find sanctuary. We did our best to heal each other’s wounds with the kind of loving acceptance that can only grow out of adversity, sweeter than the sugary tea we shared on our first date. On the weekends we tended each other’s gardens, weeding out the invasive species of toxic thoughts which grow there, and at night we uncorked old secrets in waterlogged bottles to set them free.
In this home we now work together to build a world which embraces all witches, wise women, and half-mad poetesses, where such things as gender and skin color do not endanger your quality of life – or the length of it. Where creativity flourishes free from judgment and we create for the sake of sharing our passions and dreams with others, not out of desperation to put food on the table or to prove our worth to those who will always believe us worthless. I could not fight for such a future on my own; the cruelties of the world weigh heavily on me, sometimes to the point I can hardly draw breath. I can fight as hard as I do only because Shakespeare’s Sister stands at my side, fierce and unflinching in the face of humanity’s evils. Her strength inspires me, her kindness humbles me, her generosity lifts my burdened heart so I can breathe again.
The world asks, “What is the good of your writing?” and I say it is this. Where before two strangers suffered in silence, alone, as convinced of their aberration as your young Judith Shakespeare once must have been of hers, now they stand united. Words brought them together. Words kindled their love. Words lift them up, day by day, when the world would drown them otherwise. “Someone will remember us,” Sappho wrote over 5,500 years ago, “even in another time.” And we remember. “If we live another century or so,” you wrote over ninety years ago, “then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s Sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down.” And I have found her. And these words we write today? These lives we live so stubbornly, bravely, beautifully, against all odds? In another hundred years they will be remembered by those who follow us. In another thousand. That is their power. That is our power.
So thank you, Virginia. And thank you to all those who came before. May we build a world worthy of your memories for those who will come after.
Worship the monstresses, girl;
they are hungry and fathomless.
Feed your rage to Ammit.
Feed your sorrow to Medusa.
Feed your terror to Charybdis.
Lay your howling at the altar of the Nameless
and let her fill you with the cold vacuum of the void.
Worship the beast queens, girl;
they will teach you to devour your oppressors.
in my dreams
I slit the throats of abusive fathers
my nails sharp as harpy talons
I drag rapists into the streets by their hair
smash their skulls with a silver hammer
I ride laughing through dark woods
on the back of a great goat
I fear nothing
and no one
in my dreams
I am a white woman and I am not your prop. Those who claim to “protect” me with their racism do not speak for me. I may have grown up in a predominantly white community but that does not mean I fear those whose skin looks different from mine. Instead I embrace them as fellow humans who deserve respect and empathy. I will never truly understand how hard it is to exist in this country as a non-white person, but I listen to those who share their experiences and I stand with them in solidarity. We are one species; when you harm one of us, you harm all of us.
I am a cisgender woman and I am not your prop. Those who claim to “protect” me with their transphobia do not speak for me. I love my transgender siblings and I stand beside them in their fight to live freely as their honest selves. There is nothing more beautiful than someone who is joyously comfortable in their own skin and nothing more ugly than someone who would deny someone this basic human right. Transphobia kills peaceful, harmless people every day in every country in the world. The queer community is united; when you harm one of us, you harm all of us.
I am a lesbian and I am not your prop. Those who claim to “protect” me with their exclusion of bi/pan, straight, or he/him lesbians do not speak for me. I love everyone who falls under the sapphic umbrella, be they also attracted to other genders or not. Lesbian has always been a term with much nuance and to deny this is to deny the history of queerness. As an asexual lesbian I empathize with those who do not fit perfectly under one label and I celebrate the diversity of the queer community. Label policing only serves to strengthen our oppressors; when you harm one of us, you harm all of us.
No one asked if I wanted to be born a flower; I just was. If they had asked I would have begged to be anything else. Make me a moss! I’d have pleaded. Make me a grass or a tree! Make me a succulent, a shrub, a clump of seaweed! Just please don’t make me a flower. But here I am anyway, consigned by mere biological chance to the constant appraisal of others. I didn’t want these pretty petals! I didn’t want this lovely scent! I only ever wanted to grow alone and undisturbed, giving no thought to how I might appear to others. Yet because of my pleasing aesthetic I am good for nothing more than gracing a vase or a bouquet, or perhaps crushing between the pages of a book so my beauty lasts long after I’ve died and dried. I am only the sum of what value others assign me and the higher the value, the more they desire to tear me from my roots to claim my loveliness for themselves. Oh, to be a patch of plain little lichen!
Even as Eden’s gates opened to cast Eve out, on the other side stood the Goddess to welcome Eve into Her arms.
Inanna is the essence of divine autonomy – one may even say divine selfishness. Hers is the supreme confidence to say yes! and the innate audacity to say no! She neither dissembles nor waivers, neither gives up her standards nor gives in to another’s. She does all She desires and nothing She does not desire. She is beholden to no one and thus Her every action is made with absolute freedom of will. The Queen of Heaven has not broken Her chains because She never suffered them to exist in the first place. Inanna is the only sovereign of Inanna, and She can teach you to be the sole sovereign of yourself as well. Every time we exercise our right to self-care by saying yes to something we want or no to something we don’t, we tap into Her willpower. Her road isn’t easy, but it’s the path along which we regain our authority over ourselves and come out the other side wiser and stronger.
A maw of darkness gapes before me. Beyond the cave mouth a pathway descends steeply into the cold, primal earth. There is no light to be had down that trail, nor heat, nor companionship. I am finally here – the mouth of the underworld, the first gate of seven through which I must pass. At the end of this journey awaits my death… and, if I am very lucky and very brave, my rebirth. I need only take the first step. Why can’t I take the first step?
I always knew Inanna’s road would lead me here, though not for what purpose. I believe I finally understand, however, and now I the fool who a year ago swore to run boldly in Her ancient footsteps tremble in fear at the threshold. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. How did She do this? How did She walk into the waiting darkness knowing that at every gate She must surrender a piece of Her identity? I don’t know how to let go so easily as She. I don’t know how to leave behind the things which I have dragged with me all the years of my life: internalized misogyny, unattainable beauty standards, self-hate and self-doubt and self-sabotage. I know how to love someone else’s flaws but not my own.
I’ve wondered for years why I could never quite grasp Inanna’s full appearance, why She came to me naked and unadorned with face hidden in shadow. The answer is obvious in hindsight; She was forcing me to look past Her silk robes and glittering jewels, Her golden headdress and lapis lazuli scepter, past the various trappings of the Queen of Heaven and instead to the plain flesh beneath. I had no choice but to stare at Her round hips, Her soft stomach, all Her folds and curves which were so lovingly depicted in devotional art over 5500 years ago. She wants me to understand – and truly embrace – the fact that what I find beautiful in Her I cannot vilify in myself. I must respect my body for what it is: an extension of the divine.
My body issues feel insurmountable sometimes. I’m not sure I can even make it through the first gate of this journey the goddess intends for me, let alone all seven. I asked Inanna how I can learn to love my body; She gave me the tarot card Justice as a reminder that I am my own judge and jury and therefore control the harshness or leniency of my sentence. To make any progress I must learn to see my body through a loving lens, not one warped by society’s impossible standards and my own insecurities. Is that, then, the first sacrifice on this journey? Should I – can I – surrender that broken mirror so I may pass through the gate?
I lift my foot. I take the first step.
Kneeling before Inanna’s altar I eat a pomegranate with my hands, bloody juice dripping down my fingers and chin. Sweet, bitter, I swallow seeds and spit out half-chewed rind. Inanna’s self-love isn’t all rose petals and bubble bath; it’s stained lips, sticky hands, the crunch of firm flesh beneath your teeth. Inanna’s self-love is red, raw, naked and proud of it. It is both the throne and the meat hook, the body and the spirit. She would have me know all of myself, especially those dark depths into which I am afraid to descend. There can be no self-love without acceptance, no acceptance without understanding, no understanding without recognition.
In my dreams I call myself witch.
Self-love in a woman is so radical it is akin to war. This is Inanna’s lesson.
The Queen of Heaven came to me painted in blood and exhaling ash; with every lightning crack the skull showed beneath Her proud face. She walked up out of the underworld carrying knowledge of life and death in Her curving flesh, and all the armies of man cowered before Her like dumb beasts before a lioness. I cowered too, for I was afraid of what She would demand of me. She is no gentle Aphrodite, no sweet-eyed Venus. She is Inanna, who dances on the battlefield, who strikes down mountains and laughs in Death’s face.
But, Stand daughter, She commanded and I obeyed. When I looked upon Her again, She was not half so terrifying. She wore red silk, not blood, and smelled of roses and myrrh. She was lovely as the dawn and dusk, and all the stars in the sky. Every gem has many facets, She said, and I will teach you to love all of yours. That is what it means to own yourself. That is what it means to fight back.
I begin to understand now. I ignored Inanna’s softer aspects, scornful of the vulnerability of femininity, and focused only on blood lust as Her mode of defiance. But men fear anyone with more power than theirs, and they gain power by making us hate ourselves. In this world, to be a goddess of love is as revolutionary as a goddess of war. Inanna does not rebel against patriarchal oppression with sword alone – She rebels by loving Herself, by taking ownership of Her body and treating it like the sacred vessel it is. Inanna shows us that all we need do to break our chains is embrace ourselves. Self-love is the shield with which we may protect ourselves as we walk onto the battlefield.
I do not know how to love myself. I do not know how to love this body. But if anyone can show me how, it is She who walked naked into the underworld, dressed only in Her self-love, and back out in triumph.
Amid snakes and bullets, crystals and rose petals, She watches. Her dark eyes are circled with white skull makeup; She wears Her death with easy arrogance. I fear that gaze. I fear Her, even as I light Her candle and cry Her titles. Hail Inanna, Queen of Heaven! Hail Inanna, the Morning and the Evening Star! Hail Inanna, She Who Descended and Arose Again! I fear Her as I fear Her sisters Kali and Sekhmet, Ishtar and Morrigan, Scylla and Charybdis. I fear Her wrath, Her pride, Her fickle love and frightening affection – and yet She calls to me. From Her corner altar draped in red, She waits with infinite patience as I alternately approach and shy back from Her path. It leads down deep, dark roads, and I fear above all what I will have to surrender to walk its length. But She tells me such satisfying stories, tales in which a woman can tear down mountains and sit naked and proud on the throne of death, and She whispers such sweet promises that taste like the salt-sown ashes of our enemies. She reminds me that things were not always this way, the bones of justice ground beneath the boots of our oppressors, and it does not have to remain this way. She reminds me of the goddesses who danced on the battlefield, laughing, howling, rejoicing in the thrill of bloody triumph, and that they remain with us. From Her altar, through Her death’s mask, Inanna watches and waits.
I find myself suddenly very bothered by the phrase “special snowflake”. I never liked it, nor the sentiment behind it, but I have recently been gnashing my metaphorical teeth over it. What bothers me is how illogical it is. In essence, a “special snowflake” is supposed to be someone who has many identities, aspects, and labels. This is bad, apparently. What is illogical about this is that we all have a long list of labels – the only difference is that we aren’t always vocal about as many of them. If I say I’m just a girl from Washington state, well, then I’m not a special snowflake. I’m “normal”. Yet if I make a list of even just a tenth of the labels that apply to me, then suddenly that’s too many and I’m just trying to be special. But it’s just a list. All of those things are true about me whether I say them or not. What difference does it make if I state them or leave them unsaid?
I decided to make a list of whatever personal labels I could think of off the top of my head. Let’s see how special snowflake I can be:
I am female, a daughter, and a sister. I am an Italian by descent, an American by birth, and a Washingtonian by choice. I am queer, asexual, sapphic, and engaged. I am a lazy femme, anti-makeup (for myself), and pro-leg hair. I am a feminist and a vegetarian; I am pro-choice and anti-Trump. I am lactose-intolerant, nearsighted, and a supertaster. I am allergic to salmon, kiwis, and oats. I am chronically ill. I am pagan, Kemetic, and a follower of Bast. I am anxious, obsessive-compulsive, and depressed. I am seismophobic and trypophobic. I am a Research Administrator. I am a writer and a reader. I am a nerd and a geek. I am a Fannibal, an Assassin, and a Ravenclaw.
That’s pretty impressive, but does it make me a special snowflake? I don’t think so. Anyone alive long enough to have formed a conscious understanding of who they are could make a list that long, or longer. We all have hundreds of identities, some we are born with and some we choose willingly. We’re all special snowflakes, whether we like it or not. Calling someone a special snowflake just makes you sound like you oppose having a full understanding of yourself, or using descriptors to define concepts that apply to you – in essence, “I hate that you’re using words to describe things”. Well buddy, I have some bad news for you: that’s literally what language is. Words for stuff. If you can’t get over the fact that people like to describe who they are, then you’re going to have one miserable life. Anyway. All this was to say that there’s nothing wrong with being a special snowflake, because all that means is that you’re different from other people, which is literally true for everyone on earth, even identical twins. The end.
This is a love letter to my sidecut.
When I was a kid, I had a mane of wavy hair that reached my butt. I never brushed the dark mass unless my mother held me down and did it for me, resulting in many tears on my part and frustration on hers, so it was always a rats’ nest. When it came time to wrap it all up in a bun for ballet, or trap it with a bow for choir, so many bobby pins were enlisted that some would never be found again. Despite how much I hated tending my wild hair, though, I never considered cutting it. I just had long hair, the way I had two arms and two legs, and therefore had to deal with the tangles and tearing (and two really unfortunate cases of lice) that came along with it.
When I was in high school, I chopped the whole thing off and adopted a classic bob that I thought made me look mature and edgy. It really didn’t, but a bob was much easier to care for than four feet of snarls. Still, I spent as little time as possible caring for my hair – which over time caused me to resent even the bob style for its reliance on a brush and straightener. My wavy hair just didn’t conform perfectly and immediately into the sharp, straight bob I imagined, so mostly I thought fuck it and did nothing.
When I was in my sophomore year of college, I had my friends shave off my bob in our dormitory kitchen. My father had died only a few months past and I was grieving through minor bursts of much-delayed rebellion. Over the next few years I wavered between a shaggy pixie cut, poorly styled faux-hawk, and a close shave that left me sunburned on my scalp for the first time in my life. I loved having hair that couldn’t tangle, dried fast, and required very little thought. While I knew, deep down, that my hair never looked great (okay, it often looked BAD), I didn’t care; I only cared that I didn’t have to fuss over it.
By the end of college, though, I grew tired of not knowing how to rock a pixie cut and looking more like an awkward baby-dyke than the stylish warrior woman I wanted to emulate. I grew out my bob and kept it around for a couple years because… uh. I don’t know. Somewhere along the line a bob just became my default hair, the way “super long” had been my default style as a kid. I thought I liked it well enough, but it didn’t make me feel anything. I had a bob because it was a socially acceptable haircut that didn’t look too bad on me. I washed it, dried it, brushed it before work, and never thought about it otherwise…and in between, I mooned over pictures of girls with sidecuts. They looked so cool, so fierce, so edgy and dangerous, and I wanted desperately to look like them. I knew that wasn’t how it worked, though. I hadn’t looked like a badass with a pixie cut or a faux-hawk or an asymmetrical bob. I wouldn’t look like a badass with a sidecut either.
Finally, though, after agonizing over the decision for months, I took the leap. I shaved half my head and walked out of the salon feeling like the whole world had turned a different color. Everything felt ridiculously, unaccountably different, and I was sure I turned heads everywhere I went – not because I was attractive, but because I was bursting with Me-ness. I felt like I stood out in a way I never had before, simply because every part of me was in total, perfect alignment. It sounds silly to talk like this about a haircut, but it’s the truth. Somehow that minor alteration made me click into my whole body like I never had before. I didn’t think a haircut could feel so right.
I’m going on two years with this look, one side shaved and the other growing longer by the day, and that initial feeling hasn’t lessened. This is me, I think every time I look in a mirror. I am fucking rocking this. I still have my usual body image issues – nothing can make those go away 100% – but somehow the sidecut overshadows them so much that they don’t have the same power they used to. This thing feels magical, almost spiritual. It feels like armor and defiance and comfort and truth and holy-shit-it’s-me all at the same time.
If I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s that hair grows back. To that same point, clothes can be donated, tattoos can be removed, and piercings can heal closed. Life’s too short not to experiment with trying to make who you feel like match who you look like. I’ve gone through some truly atrocious fashion phases in my life, but they’re all worth it because they got me to this place where I feel so very me. That sounds simple, but it’s a long, hard journey for most of us. So if you’re looking for a sign to get something cut, pierced, tattooed, or dyed, this is it. Go for it, friend.
You see only a soft housecat;
you forget I’ve yet my claws and teeth.
If you hurt me I will bite.
If you hurt me I will scratch.
If you hurt me I will hurt you worse
and your wounds will fester and weep.
You see only a soft housecat;
you forget I’m yet a beast.
because you are a goddess of love
they chained you to a man
because you are a goddess of love
they caged you in flesh and curves
because you are a goddess of love
they made you slave to your heart
because you are a goddess of love
they stripped you of your hauteur
they stripped you of your bloodlust
they stripped you of your complexity
because you are a goddess of love
they forgot you dance on the battlefield
they forgot you descended into hell
they forgot your memory is very long
and very unforgiving
[ I’m not entirely happy about the way Inanna has been portrayed in recent media (e.g. Carmilla and The Wicked and the Divine). The face She shows me isn’t nearly so prone to squishy, love-related emotions. The face She shows me is terrifying and awe-inspiring, and it bothers me that people learning about Her through Carmilla or WicDiv will think She’s all rainbows and sunshine. ‘Cause shit, she scares me just as much as Sekhmet or Kali or The Morrigan. ]
here’s to the goddesses with war in their bones
with blood on their hands and lies on their tongues
here’s to the goddesses who sunder and rend
who dance on the battlefield and leave ashes behind
here’s to the monstresses hungry and wild
with crocodile mouths and whirlpool lungs
here’s to the monstresses ugly but proud
who punish the reckless and turn lovers to stone
here’s to the queens with hate in their hearts
with laughter like jackals and voices like vultures
here’s to the queens who rule in the dark
who keep what they can and destroy what they can’t
here’s to the ladies made villains unfairly
maligned in mythology and cast as cliches
here’s to the women with a story untold
forgotten by history but not by their descendants
I dreamed last night you set yourself free
bursting through the door of your cage
(which had never been locked, only latched)
a phoenix rising from ashes to firestorm
and your glory melted that cage down to a puddle
so you could never be caught again.
Inanna is a god of many faces and great complexity. She is at once the girl on the dancefloor and the warrior on the battlefield. She is the receptive maiden and the wrathful woman scorned. She is silk and diamonds and bullets and brass knuckles. She presides over the dawn and the dusk, and She has walked the long dark road between on bloody feet. She loves; She wars; She punishes; She guides. She is the kind of freedom that can only be obtained by fighting back, by tearing a place for yourself in a world that would push you down. Inanna will not wage the war for you, but She will put the sword in your hand and show you how to use it – and when you are triumphant, She will dance with you on the battlefield.
Hi, friends. Let’s talk about body hair.
I find it both fascinating and infuriating that my genitalia somehow dictate where and to what lengths I may let my body hair grow. If I have a vagina, I am expected to grow out the hair on my head yet shave my legs and armpits (and possibly my arms), pluck my eyebrows, and wax my upper lip. However, if I have a penis instead, I can grow my body hair as much as I want as long as I keep the hair on my head short. Why body parts I keep covered 95% of the time have any control over my outer appearance I do not know, besides the usual arbitrary rules of “polite” society.
I’m going to be blunt here – I am one hairy, hairy lady. My father’s genes blessed me with the thick, dark hair of a proper Italian girl, and this hair is in no way confined to socially appropriate body parts. My eyebrows connect in a solid line if I don’t pluck them; I have a moustache pre-teen boys would die for; my leg hair is as healthy and hearty as an old-growth forest. My mother even took me as a baby to the doctor to ask about the fine carpet of hair I was growing on my back, wondering if something was seriously wrong with her little girl. But no, nothing wrong, per say… her daughter just happened to be almost as furry as the cats she’d soon pretend to be. I plant these somewhat unpleasant images in your mind to establish the soapbox on which I stand. I am covered in hair. Healthy hair. Hair that grows thick, grows fast, grows constantly.
I’m also lazy. Very, very lazy. What to others looks like a stubborn feminist stance against makeup, leg shaving, and bra wearing is really just me not wanting to bother with such frippery. I have shaved my legs a handful of times over the course of my almost 28 years, and each time has been like the first time. If I don’t shave my legs on at least a bi-weekly basis, the hair returns like the thorns surrounding Sleeping Beauty’s castle – and is just as hard to hack through. My hair can dull a razor blade in a matter of moments and no matter how many times I shave, some hairs will always escape beheading to pop up mockingly.
If I sound bitter, it’s because I am – but not about my hair. I have nothing against my hairy legs or fuzzy arms, my downy lip or weirdly long eyebrow lashes. They’re just doing what hair does best, which is grow. No, I’m bitter because society has boxed me into a corner from which I can’t quite figure out how to escape. See, as a confident, stubborn queer girl living in a liberal state, I can get away with a certain amount of rule-breaking; I have a sidecut, after all, and let my eyebrows do their wacky thing. I’m quite open about not shaving my legs, too. But when it comes to showing off those legs in public? That’s where I falter. I wonder, what will my coworkers think? Will they talk about me behind my back? Will HR tell me I’m not being hygienic? Will I become “that girl”?
And then my inner feminist jumps in. You like being “that girl!” she says. You’re unashamedly “that girl!” all the time! And yes, that’s true. I do. I am. So why is this one rule so hard for me to break? Why can’t I walk into work in a knee-length skirt with the same swagger I felt when I walked in with my shaved head or new tattoos? Why, when I firmly believe that the only reason we vilify female body hair is because of societally constructed beauty standards, am I still so hesitant? I’m fiercely independent by nature, yet I allow myself to be cowed into covering a completely natural, harmless, inoffensive part of my body even in the hottest month of the year. My inner Luna Lovegood shakes her head in disappointment – but Luna was blonde, and I bet she wasn’t carrying a carpet around on her legs.
I’m not saying anything new and groundbreaking here, I know. Sometimes you just need to rant about the bizarre rules human society has constructed, rules with no basis in logic but which most people, even those who are highly logical, never question. I know we’ll get there one day – I just hope I’ll have been one tiny cog in that roll towards progress, and not one of the many wrenches.
Dua Bast, Lady of the East!
Dua Bast, Lady of the Flame!
Dua Bast, Vengeful Eye of Ra!
Dua Bast, Protective Mother Cat!
You who are Goddess of Family and Home
become home for this one who has nowhere to go
become family for this one who has no one to turn to
may Your claws rend their enemies, oh Tearer
may Your tongue soothe their wounds, oh Lady of Truth
may Your love be light in the darkness, oh Fiery One
You who are warrior and mother both
teach this one to be their own champion
teach them to be their own caretaker
walk by their side, Invisible Paw
so that Your presence may bring them hope
Dua Bast, Lady of the East!
Dua Bast, Lady of the Flame!
Dua Bast, Vengeful Eye of Ra!
Dua Bast, Protective Mother Cat!
[ A prayer for anyone in need, but intended specifically for children and women in bad situations. ]
I live in a world where I hope I will be respected for my love.
I live in a world where I hope I will be respected for my gender.
So how can I contribute to a world where something will not be respected for its species?
If I hope for respect, must I not first respect the most vulnerable of us?
If I hope for freedom, must I not first ensure the freedom of the caged?
If I hope for happiness, must I not first limit the unhappiness I cause?
It is dangerous to be queer in this world.
It is dangerous to be a woman in this world.
But it is more dangerous to be an animal in this world.
I am privileged to be human, and it is not my place to decide what lives or dies.
So let nothing more die for me.
you try to reason with me as if
I am a girl, soft and sweet
when I am really a lioness
and don’t you know
no lioness has ever cared
if she’d look prettier
without all that blood on her fur
my body is history, mythology, fantasy
my hands have dragged sailors to their doom
my feet have danced to sistrums and chanting
my heart beats the blood of every virgin sacrifice
my eyes blink back the blind oracle’s darkness
my voice is the widow’s wail, the daughter’s dirge
the war cry of Sekhmet, the song of Sappho
my warm flesh is priced pound by pound
bathed in milk, in oil, in perfume, in blood
my curves are criminal and coveted
wrapped in silk, in velvet, in gold, in chains
I am carved from marble and painted on tombs
I am burned at the stake and lauded in the brothel
I am subjugated and unbreakable
I am veiled and radiant
I am a sister
born of daughters
born of mothers
born of gods
“Invitation (to Leave)”
If you are a biggot, get out.
If you are a biggot, a racist, a bully,
A troll-er, a trash-er, a happiness bash-er…
If you’re proud of ignorance, well hey, there’s the door,
Go and offer your opinions no more.
[ A snarky parody of Shel Silverstein’s poem “Invitation”. ]