That bully, that foul language spewing misogynist. That person can be a woman. A woman with such a powerful hurt and hate that she lashes out at the very thing that she can not be. She is a child. A child desecrated before Moira was born.
That woman seems to be out of control. She is filled with rage so big and consuming that everything she touches gets a lashing. From the inanimate to the breathing. She would never see it this way but sometimes she is a racist. Racism is not always directed at the person claiming racism.
That woman prefers the small, and the voiceless; the lame and the lost. How else does one feed a dragon? Surely not with those capable of flight.
That woman has a hurt so deep that there is not enough life left in her to figure out the source of her fire breath. That woman is to be pitied. That woman, if she is lucky will one day be utterly alone, left with nothing but herself. With nothing but the dead silence that can never be heard when you're yelling. That woman alone may then have a chance to reclaim what was stolen from her.
Pitied from over here. Over there you run the risk of incineration. The dragon can not recognize the good from the bad. It can't see the difference within itself. It is an animal in this respect; it only knows how to impulsively and compulsively respond to imagined threats. It's big and bulky and can't see the delicate things it tramples upon. It doesn't see the varying degrees of winces and appall as a signal that things are not right. Any grimace noticed is unconsciously grasped as evidence that the inner feeling of dread just might be true. And like a circle, it goes 'round and 'round.
That slave that you weep for,
That blackness which you crave,
That steadfast 'no' that you can't sway,
That constant assertion of boundary:
Of you over there and me over here,
That refusal to be confused,
That tumbleweed of lachrymosity, that is less painful than rage
You, you inflict a violence against women. One woman was me.
All is forgiven, but time marches on.
I am not Androcles; that thorn that festers can only be removed by you.
That woman seems to be out of control. She is filled with rage so big and consuming that everything she touches gets a lashing. From the inanimate to the breathing. She would never see it this way but sometimes she is a racist. Racism is not always directed at the person claiming racism.
That woman prefers the small, and the voiceless; the lame and the lost. How else does one feed a dragon? Surely not with those capable of flight.
That woman has a hurt so deep that there is not enough life left in her to figure out the source of her fire breath. That woman is to be pitied. That woman, if she is lucky will one day be utterly alone, left with nothing but herself. With nothing but the dead silence that can never be heard when you're yelling. That woman alone may then have a chance to reclaim what was stolen from her.
Pitied from over here. Over there you run the risk of incineration. The dragon can not recognize the good from the bad. It can't see the difference within itself. It is an animal in this respect; it only knows how to impulsively and compulsively respond to imagined threats. It's big and bulky and can't see the delicate things it tramples upon. It doesn't see the varying degrees of winces and appall as a signal that things are not right. Any grimace noticed is unconsciously grasped as evidence that the inner feeling of dread just might be true. And like a circle, it goes 'round and 'round.
That slave that you weep for,
That blackness which you crave,
That steadfast 'no' that you can't sway,
That constant assertion of boundary:
Of you over there and me over here,
That refusal to be confused,
That tumbleweed of lachrymosity, that is less painful than rage
You, you inflict a violence against women. One woman was me.
All is forgiven, but time marches on.
I am not Androcles; that thorn that festers can only be removed by you.
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