warrior woman rising
True Love is about to meet you in your truth, and your truth is the magnificence of your feminine heart. Don’t be afraid to rise, don’t try to be less than who you are in the name of love, don’t dim your light to keep a man.
We will not sit back and be idle. We are restless change-agents come to claim the future our souls designed when we lived beyond the veil. This is the reckoning. The Motherland is real, and She is wrathful. We are incensed by the ignorance, and our vows are being emblazoned with ire on the ...
I summon them, these women I was told to shun, and I take my seat at this Last Supper of Holy Whores, this so solemn Samhain celebration that is my highest ritual.
The deadliest sins of the wild woman are far more loathsome than those committed against any external deity, for they are those she commits against herself.
She can accept the ugly shadows as parts of her but not this cosmic blessing kneeling before her. Still, she does as she is told, nourishing herself with the Shadow of Divinity; she tastes like sacred nectar and ceremonial chocolate. She tastes like holy water and the body of the Magdalene.
Our vaginas, you told us, are most certainly not for our own sexual enjoyment -- lest we be identified as whores and sluts, of course -- but should be ready and available and appropriately groomed at all times for the pleasure of Patriarchal domination. And we believed it, so much so that we ...
I don’t know who started the chant, but soon there were millions of voices crying out into the night, "We are taking back our children, and we are rising! We are rising! We are rising!" The clouds started parting, and when we saw the moon, we knew we were fulfilling a sort of planetary destiny.
And this, my love, this is the hearty bread of fem-fire; it has been baked in the blazes of our funeral pyres, smoked in the houses they burned, and seasoned with the ashes of the holy healers burned at the stake. This is the taste of righteous rage. Don’t eat this before bed, or you will not ...
A strong September wind tosses her untamed hair, and she knows it is time. This is the night of her soul-reaping, and she will be covered in the Witch’s war paint of dirt, sweat, ash, and blood before it is all over.