Being a woman is exhausting. Messiahs are cows that die to feed the masses with their carcasses, and cows cannot become God.
Look inward and ask, Do I want to be the other half when I can be whole accompanied by another whole which makes for two strong circles of support? Do I need to argue the Yes baby, No baby, Maybe baby debate? If I don’t do what’s expected, will my family and friends still accept me? That’s a ...
Why else would you expect me to settle for anything less than love in its purest form, as if my desires to make love to you, birth life with you, be ravished by you, and merge completely with you could be contained or constricted by fear that we might actually be bound to one another?
Roots rip open the soles of my feet. I walk with soil underneath, tall grass grows in the path I weave.
Know that she’s looking at times for a soft space to land; to let go without judgment, without being told she needs to be fixed. Without being asked what’s wrong. Without being condemned or looked down upon. Without being made to feel like she’s failed simply for showing another side of herself.