I heard someone say, "Being a mother in America will radicalize you faster than anything else."
The same ones who give mothers a flower during the special service are the same ones who tie her down and light the match while singing "Jesus Saves".
You don't have to step out of line in order to become a witch for them to burn you. Heathen or righteous, we all get burned somehow, either at the stake or through burn out.
My sisters sitting in the pews receiving their flowers as they bleed in secret, maybe their smiles are genuine, it doesn't matter.
They are still my sisters.
Victims of the Patriarchy whether they know it or not. I guarantee their bodies know.
🩸When the Pastor's wife shows up in church the next Sunday after she gave birth just so she didn't miss a service. She might get away with the message she's telling herself at the moment, but her body is still bleeding.
🩸The mother sitting on the floor holding her baby, getting up to chase a toddler and answer the 500th question of the day and it's only 2pm. Her husband sitting comfortably and stoic, barking orders at her. She might try to tell herself she's in favor with God, but her body screams in pain and exhaustion.
🩸The mother who doesn't have babies anymore, but is on one of her last few periods while juggling being on the phone with a daughter's broken heart, a son who just got in a car crash, and another who wants to die. She might tell herself God has a plan, but her body holds the pain.
🩸The mother who went through all the same gruesome burdens, but walked away empty handed whether it be a hospital, fire station or lawyer's office. There were two losses that day. She tries to tell herself that she'll see them again, but she can't soothe the tears of her body.
🩸The mother who's grown child walked away and after all those years, they just don't understand. She tries to separate herself and condemn them just like the Bible says, but her body longs for her baby, and cannot refuse them.
She aches on the inside but *Chooses not to feel it. She must stand with her babies in her arms, some weight is visible and some invisible. Poor core and pelvic floor and bleeding from every hole and angle, but she covers it with Bible verses that say, "Blessed be".
These are my sisters.
The ones bleeding in secret and too afraid to acknowledge that they can feel every cramp and drip.
They stand there unmovable with a smile on their faces. Receive the annual single flower. Silence.
When the Pastor preaches more shame specifically to her, I'll grab the mic and preach Grace. Not because she deserves punishment, but because the laws for a Mother are his invention. Emphasis on the small h.
When are "godly" mothers going to wake up and realize that they were never at the mercy of God, but they've been at the mercy of m3n all along. The wanna-be gods are the ones pulling the strings, and getting mothers to do their dirty work for them. Both literally and spiritually.
The women standing stark and proud with their single, wilted flower in their hands, and their heads bowed in shame, turning away, afraid of embracing the truth in fear-
That if they start to feel the rage, it will never go away.
It doesn't.
So they point and nod and say, "Take her away. Burn her at the stake."
They are still my sisters.
Because burning comes for all of us who bleed and multiply.
Either you burn by fire, first passion then judgement,
Or be at the mercy of men and
You
Burn
Out.
I thought we were the matches, but we are the cigarettes.
Used by m3n for status and addiction then discarded.
Either used up and squashed and onto the next, or get tossed as an example to burn the other witches.
All a good m@n has to do is light us up one way or another.
Force us into his mouth.
And watch us burn either way.
If I'm going out in smoke, I'm at least going to make some noise on the way out.
For my sisters.
Light us up, boys.