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.
Pure electric prana erupted in her guts, a volcano of soul-renewal, and her spine arched as the foundation of her sex-spirit bridge was thickly poured by the She-Gods themselves. She pulled her hood down, letting the first raindrops fall on her knotted hair and scratched cheeks. She was ready.
Rage is not hate. Hate emerges from rage not recognized, responsibility not taken, the projection of blame for one's own suffering onto others who are not to blame.