Slaying molds is not for the meek,
It is the job of a warrior.

Rise Up Sisters.

The future is seen. Can you feel it?
His story never was.
We are now free.

Let’s bleed together, remembering who we are,
praising the magick of our being.
The power of unity,
our wombs of eternity,
past and future.

Decoding fable and fiction is not for the faint of heart.
It is the job of a thousand rebels.
Threading truths, stitch by stitch.

Falling to our knees
we dig,
tombs of treasures
of daughters and mothers,
generations of grandmothers
who’s mouth stitched shut, hands tied.
Her story was never forgotten.

Cracking patterns are not for the distracted.
It is the job of a nebula of stars,
burning in our bellies.

Rise up Sisters.

Shedding tears,
merging ice cold and wild rivers.
To wash away the shriveled scriptures of
gibberish and violent hands.
To soothe blue bruises.
To soak our intentions.

Let history evaporate,
exhale dark smoke.
The wind shall carry our truths,
forging new memories.

Racing towards the shadows is not for the abashed.
It is the job of our united flame,
heating a caldron of whispers,
from each direction we bring forth,
a rewritten story.
Hers and theirs.

Let him drop to his knees.
For we are sharpening our pencils.

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