I stand in my own power now, the questions of permission that I used to choke on for my every meal now dead in a fallen heap, and when they tell me that I will fall, I nod. I will fall, I reply, and
my words are a whisper
my words are a howl
I will fall , I say, and the tumbling will be all my own. The skinned palms and oozing knees are holy wounds, stigmata of my She.
I will catch my own spilled blood, and not a drop will be wasted.
an excerpt from Beth Morey's