I feel stripped raw.
These times come cyclically and I in my discomfort I wear my hair around my face, a shielding and a feminine cloak.
Masking the darkness and the deep.
Allowing me to slip by unseen. To pretend, for a time.
Unrest hums within my soul.
The feast day of Mary Magdalene - she, the misjudged, the whore and the Holy Grail.
Feeling imperfect, feeling exposed.
How hard to be a woman when your sexuality is turned and used against you.
The gift of life made violent.
Like birth, perverted, turned against us and using fear and shame to keep us downtrodden.
How to be a good lover.
How to be a good mother.
I have walked these paths in different ways. Refusing to be a victim in birth, the other I don't dare speak of.
I bite my tongue and force a smile instead. Good girl.
Whether I do what I want with my body or not, I'm wrong.
Walking the impossible line. Do as you're told, or be forever condemned.
Mary Magdalene.
