I remember the proverbial “dagger beneath my mattress”. Since, as cocaine is to her addict, patriarchy is his demon of choice. It is low and wicked. It deceives the hearts of men…leaving them filled with grief.
Why is it so difficult for him to stray from the ancient feminine blood beating in my heart? That he holds a high position in society makes it all the more confusing. He is vexed because he can’t help but come to me. He cringes because he hates me. His natural love for my womb has been perverted. This man loathes what he cannot own. So, at the height of thirst, he denies himself the honor of true connection.
…in his mind, he smacks me, mounts me… grabs my neck and grinds into my open flesh. A need for power… to dominate beckons my weakened cry. He can’t see me…and abuses me.
It becomes my duty to shut down the toxic flow of words, thoughts, and behaviors. Pained and breathless, I reach for the handle of my dagger. In my mind, I position my hands, just beneath his lower back as he moves to dive deeper into me. When I hug him, I stab the blade into the small of his spine.
“This”, I prayed, “…for the trail of women he raped over the years…for being a gateway for misogynous thought, for defending the privileged in the hierarchy of oppression”. “This”, I prayed, “…for putting an end to, at least, one man’s journey as a predator. His part in this epidemic disease is over”. That spirit in him slobbered, stuttered, suffocated on curses and went away.
While the man sleeps, I douse his body with oil and smear herbs in the shape of a cross on his forehead. This cross is a convenient symbol of power used to justify the contempt of women over the centuries. When this body leaves my presence, I pray that Mother Earth and her multiverse will know who he is and what to do with him.
I am as I was. And happy to be so, I stomp my foot onto fresh dirt as a testimony of victory… and return to my room.
I am a Temple Priestess.
©Copyright 2011 by InnaRae