If we make her a virgin mother, we don’t have to glorify feminine sexuality... So as a collective, we go along with the only acceptable Feminine archetype.
And so it is we hear them now, the voices of the grandmothers that never were. The voices of hundreds of thousands of wise women, calling us back to the power that flows in our veins.
She is howl-praying to the waxing Harvest Moon just for you. She is through being a loner, and she knows you can speak in the fork-tongued language of snakes and join her in the quest for a deep and certain truth.
She’s long gone. She is hot-spark divinity embodied in goose-bumped skin and framed by spiraling bones. She is the high, rebel Priestess, now she knows it, and she could never return to the too-small, so-quaint life you were offering that made you God and her, disciple.
I’m sure that we weren’t really meant to be, and that you won’t need me where you stand. Actually you never did, because what you were imagining about me wasn’t real, it was an illusion of yours or the picture of what you wanted me to be. And I’m sure that I won’t need you on the other side ...
Here, we wake every morning knowing our role in the Holy Feminine’s return, and we pin the scarlet letters of unabashed sexuality to our bare chests. We need no absolution, for our very blood is blessed, and we will stand up for those who cannot stand on their own.