warrior woman rising
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.
Travel to all the forgotten places. Dance naked beneath the shining starlight of your intuition. Rediscover the ancient mysteries drawn on the walls of your womb and the wisdom of the ever-changing scarlet tides of your blood. Step boldly into the long-suppressed fires of sacred anger, allowing ...
Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits, my lost creature, my kin. Together, these wild ghosts will bring you home.
Here, we wake every morning knowing our role in the Holy Feminine’s return, and we pin the scarlet letters of unabashed sexuality to our bare chests. We need no absolution, for our very blood is blessed, and we will stand up for those who cannot stand on their own.
Pure electric prana erupted in her guts, a volcano of soul-renewal, and her spine arched as the foundation of her sex-spirit bridge was thickly poured by the She-Gods themselves. She pulled her hood down, letting the first raindrops fall on her knotted hair and scratched cheeks. She was ready.
The hunter stood before the weeping ruler, holding the red cloak gifted him by the wire-haired Witch in his hands and pondering his pending mission. He heard the whispers on the streets about the wild women who had stopped going to church and rejected the rules of their father’s house.