She Wakes

Good

There is a part of me that has always known

her.

She pre-dates me.

She pre-dates all of us.

She was here before the first little girl

learned to be quiet.

But men keep waking her up.

A TV star. A diplomat.

A priest shuffled to a

fresh parish.

A sweetheart deal that buried it

for a decade.

260,000 men in a Telegram room —

not a secret society.

A city.

72 strangers. Ordinary men.

A forklift driver. A nurse. A firefighter.

Husbands. Fathers.

And now —

a president.

A rapist.

A man who touches little girls

and other men (and women) protect him.

Shame must change sides.

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭. 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞. 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬

-•-

I was at the 79th Street subway stop

waiting for a train

following the thread of a thought

when I saw 𝐡𝐞𝐫

for the first time.

Eight feet tall.

Nine feet tall.

Hair that moved —

each strand alive, lit from within,

moving on its own

like it had somewhere to be.

Her eyes were light orbs.

Dark and full of light at the same time.

Everything about her was electric.

Live wire.

Ancient.

𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚.

She didn't walk.

She moved the way things do

when they are done

being patient.

She had a man in her sights.

She pulled him toward her

with her eyes —

a tractor beam —

and the closer he got

the more light poured out of her.

When he was close enough

she kissed him.

Long.

Wet.

Open-mouthed.

And his life force poured out of him

into her.

When she drew back

she looked at him

with those black eyes full of light —

and then

with her right hand

she punctured his chest.

With her left

she grabbed his dick and his balls

and ripped.

Heart and genitals.

Both.

Gone.

She sucked the power out of them

with her mouth.

And then —

[𝙖 𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙧: 𝙖 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙]

There she is.

Standing in blood and light and power.

Shaking.

Finally full.

Until the next feeding.

-•-

I came back to myself

on that platform

train pulling in

strangers all around me.

And I thought:

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝.

She's still here.

She has always been here.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧

𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙨.