W is for Women.

They say that Eve was the First Lady. And for the purposes of these musings, we’ll conveniently forget dear Lilith, the unruly First Wife, exiled from paradise for refusing to give in to her husband’s whims and requirements for such a role.

Eve, demure, obedient, and totally fine with the missionary position for life, still got it wrong, managing to bring shame upon womankind and getting both herself and Adam kicked out from paradise’s Garden, all because of some slack and kerfuffle involving a fruit, a snake, and a curious nature. A wild nature. Her wild nature.

Her. Nature. Wild.

The Feral Fatale, Femme of Freedom; of riding writhing on top of our lover; of bare-backed Godiva gaits; and of daring to take a bite, to know that we are animal, and that to converse with Snake shakes our Shakti free, and that we never wanted to live in Paradise in the first place!

We were never asked.

Silenced.

By others. By men. By ourselves.

Fearing that to speak would mean those snakes would spill out, and wriggle like the rivers, building in force on the way to the oceans.

I love the sea. A Holy Sea. Enchanting and Fierce. Soft and Untamed. Merciless and made for Birthing. Hidden and Deep. Vast and Unfathomable. The sea is She, this I am certain of. Don’t mess with her lullaby, her Siren call bodes unforboding for the naïve fisherman trailing his net, searching, and seeking, for what he does not understand!

We Women are reclaiming our voices now. Clearing our throats of toads, and lies. Coughing up the debris that the years have shipwrecked to our insides. And cutting the Stitches, pulling them out, so that our lips are free to tell the truth. Our Truth. Her Truth. The Snakes and the Seas truth. Our lips embroidered stitched by cruel needles because they were so fearful of our Power. Of our Mouths, with songs a direct hotline to nature and all that is wise and ancient. Of our Cunts, with songs of eternity, depths, pleasures, and the ability to be Fucked open to God!

The Original Womb. The Original Wound. The Vagina Void, a Valley to the heavens and more, and back to the Original Big Bang. Back to Zero.

No woman should have part of her sex cut. Her pleasure negated. Eve’s shame rerouted.

Bloodlines. Rivulets dripping red from the valley clefts. Raging rivers of unspoken anger and hidden passion. The Flower. Carrying both the grief and the magic potions of life. The Creator and Creatrix of Life. The carriers of life. The Birthers of mystery and new flesh, squatting, grunting and roaring to be raw and willing to be split and torn to give life. That being our own choice. Our own choice.

Goddesses. Willing to need stitches. For love. For life. How fuckin extraordinary is that?! To bear life stretching in the globe of one’s womb, of one’s belly. Ripe Fruit. Strange Fruit. Dripping and Delicious. Sweet and Sour. The Original Seeds.

Goddesses. Willing to be torn. To suckle the young. To feed. To Care. To Nourish. To Hold the whole goddamn world and stretch even more.

The Waves have come. A slow labour. Of over a hundred years of contractions, preparing to birth. From Rosa Parks to Me Too. From Ida B Wells to the Suffragettes. From Gloria Steinem to Amanda Gorman. From 1848 to this breath now, and the next. And the next. The birth is imminent and yet so far away. A tangible mirage that we can only hold in each palm in another of life’s human paradox. For now.

Stitches.

Maybe we’re stitching the universe back together again?!

Mamma earth. Fierce and tender. Kali and Parvati. Devotion and the Goddess. Parts and pieces torn and exiled to shreds and scattered across the world. Across continents and time. Re-claiming. Re-membering. Pieces of our skin once torn in lamentation. And despair. Our flesh. Once scorned and judged. What is she wearing? If she looks like that then she’s asking for it! Slut. Whore. Victim. All silenced by big dick energy and misplaced power, disguised as misogyny, abuse, and a deep hatred and split from woman. From her. From the void.

Damsels in fuckin distress. They prick their fingers on spinning wheels and whilst sleeping like the dead, are touched up by the Prince without consent. She belongs to him. An object. And she must be so grateful to be rescued. A drop of blood and we are dangerous. We need to be tamed, rescued, drop our panties all glistening as the knight in shining armour comes to save us. Again and again and again.

When will my Prince come? These days, the only one that interests me departed from our earthly plains a few years ago. Oh purple one! Helping us get through this thing called life!

Reclaim your Witch, Bitch. We didn’t burn for nothing. They didn’t know that to burn us up would unleash the Phoenix, would battle scar us with deeper wisdom, and an eternal flame. Her flame. Her fire. Ours. And still we rise. Yes Maya, we do!

So dear Sisters,

Divest Disney and straighten your crown Queen!

Celebrate your sexuality, Unleash its torrent, and own it girrrl!

Use your voice and vote with the Cliteral agency of your power. Your womb-deep power!

Snarl if need be and roar whenever it suits you.

Never give away your Care, yet be discerning in its temper. No, means No, means No!

Be you.

Shine. And bleed. And roam with dirty feet and blood trickling upon the lands.

Stand up for your daughters. For your sisters. For your Self!

A revolution is a coming. It’s just a slow birth on the open seas.

I love you dear Women X

Happy International Women’s Day.

Aho X