I am woven together with silvery fibres of infinite fragility, and deep within my core there is a well of sadness so deep that whenever we lower the bucket into the black abyss, we’re almost always certain that it will never return.
My sadness spills over from lifetimes that I can not possibly recall, but it comes always from the same source. Our very nature is swathed in mystery. We have been stifled and silenced, and held down, and sliced open, over and over and over.
I gave you my blood and my breath, and for that I will always, always be sorry.
I’m playing with power. I’m slipping trust on in different configurations, but nothing feels like it fits. My body is like play dough, and I’ve learned how easily I can turn it into an empty shell, and that empty coldness is exhilarating.
We should be honored. We are creators of life. We love deeply, and fiercely, and selflessly. We move through the world in beauty and we are matched to the rhythms of the tides and the cycles of the moon. We are the glue that holds every thread together in the world. We care for and nurture and sacrifice and give.
We should get nothing less in return.