Don’t call me a lady.
Ladies don’t scream and cry and fight,
that’s right, I said fight!
Ladies don’t fight like warriors.
They don’t scream their refusal.
They don’t challenge their opressers.
Ladies meekly sit and meekly die.
I am no lady.
I am not afraid to look fear in the eye.
I’m not afraid to step forward and stand alone, whilst those around me hide their dissatisfaction within the folds of lace napkins.
Me? I’d rather be a messy, bloody, howling mass of unladylike passion.
A swirling tornado of dreams, wishes and determined actions.
I’d rather than be anything than be a fucking lady.
I’d rather be cursed with bloody knees and unmanageable passions, than ever be the kind of woman that doesn’t know she has a voice that can echo down mountains.
I’d rather be bruised by all the times I’ve fallen trying to climb hills, than to have pristine kneecaps that have only ever known the pattern of boring carpets in need of prayer.
I’d rather be less in your eyes, than less in my own.
Don’t call me a lady, I’m too busy being a Goddess.