The Good News Is: You Have Passion. The Bad News Is: You Have Passion.
She pulls down her mask in fear of reveal. She takes off her gown and kicks off her heels, shrinking, wondering what it is he’s thinking.
She succumbs to the burns and scars under the moon and stars. Twisted, torn, tangled… strangled. She starts to scream, but cannot speak, if only there were safety to seek. Despite feeling it in her chest, deception at its best, he comes to her aid as they masquerade…
Don’t repress, my love; be free, my love, he whispers, pressing his body against hers. We’re interdependent, like the body and the soul.
Lies, she replies. Our bodies are machines.
She pushes the fear aside and garners the courage to keep looking for the passion she was told to stop searching for. He breathes her into his body and soul. His genius embraces her, and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel underestimated.
She is an equal: intellectually, sexually, existentially, artistically, fundamentally, consistently, organically, and sincerely. She surrenders her soul to the mind-body dualism. Her concrete Cartesianism versus his abstract Platonian philosophy.
The good news is: you have passion. The bad news is: you have passion, he says. She believes him at first. She believes that it is good and bad to have passion. She knows now that having passion isn’t good and bad; it’s strictly good. She doesn’t fight it anymore. She deepens her breath and finds comfort in the uncomfortable.
Upon this realization, she becomes Queen Magdalene (albeit obscene).
The Queen knows it’s neither irrational nor unjust to be passionate and to search for passion. The Queen makes no apologies and says, Fuck the Disclaimer. No one can ignore The Queen. Her passion can be seen, felt, heard, tasted, and touched.
It’s not only filled with love, but also with righteous indignation. She deepens her breath again, and the chaos in her lungs no longer retreats.
She pulls off her mask and throws away the script.
She refuses to tone down her rhetoric or to change her narrative.
She doesn’t just wrap her legs around it, she wraps her fucking heart and soul around it.
Oh, she still fucks up, she just doesn’t fuck off anymore.
If she goes down, it’s always swinging.
And to the naysayers? Iscariot, you’ve been caught, she simply says, knowing the only shoes she has to fill are her own, whether they’re Doc Martens or Prada heels.
Amy Blanaru is a left-leaning Celtic Gypsy based in Boston. She works in addiction treatment and likes her pasta al dente. You can find her on Facebook.