Maidens, mothers, crones, queens, nuns, sluts and bitches!
Gather round my beauties;
I have something I need to tell you.
Something our mothers never taught us,
nor our teachers in the classroom:
If you surrender to a man completely
He will show you who he really is.
A man may wear ten thousand masks,
and know ten thousand dances,
and hold ten thousand titles,
and have ten thousand stories
about where he has been
and where he is going.
He may slay strange dragons,
he may bring you daffodils,
he may whisper golden promises into your ear,
but if you surrender to him completely,
he will show you who he really is.
Beneath it all.
Beneath the show.
Beneath the bombast and the puppet strings.
Beneath the toned abs and calculated phrasings.
Beneath the nice cars and stated ambitions.
Beneath the ten thousand masks.
He will show you.
Maidens, mothers, crones, queens, nuns, sluts and bitches,
I tell you the truth:
If you surrender fully to a man
just like all the priests told you to,
if you become as pliable as putty
and let him mould you to his will,
if you make his desires as yours,
create his castles and his craters,
meet his cravings and manifest his dreams
and shape-shift to his precise specifications,
bit by bit you will make the world he wants,
and everything around you
will tell you who he is
and what he wants
and what sort of god he’d make
if only he were in charge.
You will see his true face in the things he makes through you.
I once surrendered fully to a man
with a beautiful face and a nebulous tongue.
He had me build him crooked conveyor belts
which funneled power and women into his gaping mouth.
He shaped me into an Ottoman
for him to rest his feet upon
while he smoked foul cigarettes
and consumed the energy of the earth
into his blackened veins.
I gave him everything he wanted,
exactly as he wanted it.
And I tell you my maidens, my mothers, my crones,
my queens, my nuns, my sluts and my bitches,
one day he showed me his true face,
a genocide in a face
with a Boer’s eyes which yearned only for slaves.
I did not want to see it.
Indeed I’d been trying not to.
I’d seen glimpses before,
and laughed nervously,
told him playfully to stop looking
like he wanted to shred female flesh with a whip
and sell it at the market by the pound.
When it came round that last time,
I begged him to show me something else,
anything else beneath that mask.
A scared little boy,
some tender insecurities,
a confused, misunderstood inclination toward love,
anything to show me my devotion had not been wasted
binding human sacrifices for a dark and sinister demigod.
I was a genie in a bottle,
hoping that one day he would wish for my freedom,
but he never, ever would.
The only man who is worthy of woman’s magic
is one who wishes for her freedom,
one who wants to see the fruition of her vision,
one who longs to help manifest her creations,
one who wants to see the world
created in her third eye’s image,
uncaged by by the bars of slavery and servitude,
of religion and family obligation,
of societal demands and marital duties,
without twisting her soulcraft into breastmilk for his demons,
without a pinch and a punch and a “What about me?”
and some dead-eyed sex whenever he wants it.
A man who wants to see her fly,
to see her free,
to see her sorcery rain down on our sick world
and nourish the Garden of Eden back into existence.
And so my dear maidens, my dear mothers,
my dear crones, my dear queens,
my dear nuns, my dear sluts, my dear bitches,
if you are ever unsure if a man is worthy of your magic,
if he will raise you up instead of pushing your head down,
if his desire will create a worthy world
for our children and grandchildren:
surrender to him completely,
and he cannot help but show you for certain.
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