I feel; and therefore I am. A woman; bludgeoned by the self, oppressed by what “should be”. Impending and ravenous femininity; starved archetypes; knocking; rapping, now slamming their bodies against the front door. Limbs and wings splintering as they break their figures to pieces just to enter my namesake.
I hurt and from here-out I am temporarily that hurt. Pain no longer does it consume, but I become a filter; digesting the lesson and passing through it all. It becomes compost, it’s sovereignty only given by those it would devour. All this while the capacity of my dominance far outweighing it’s own frail imperium.
I learn; and once-more I am a blank-slate; Bare: let go of ideas fixated on “life”, “love”, arguments and all those old stories that I hold so desperately to. The rancid meals that poison me; the twisted hopes that disappoint me, the childish ideals that blind me.
Blankness, giving forth to careful and gentle nudges towards a self far beyond that of which I covet.
Virtue within post jaded wisdom.