They called her filthy.
Not because she was,
but because she could not be controlled.
They draped her in shame like a second skin,
cursed her in the name of gods,
mutilated her in the name of religion,
silenced her in the name of morality.
And yet they knelt before her.
In secret. In desire.
For she is the gate.
The rupture through which life spills.
The place where lust and existence share the same breath.
They wanted to possess her
and called it love.
They wanted to dominate her
and called it protection.
They wanted to destroy her
and called it purity.
Wars were waged around her.
Not out of love, but out of ownership,
and out of fear of her power.
She is not an object.
Not a taboo.
Not an ornament.
She is origin.
Uncomfortable.
Non-negotiable.
She is not filthy.
The filth lies in the history
that was forced upon her.
And as long as she is feared,
they will try to gild her,
to possess her, to hide her,
or to erase her.
Yet she remains.
Dark.
True.
And older than every lie.
