Oval orchestras illuminate my mind with their music. In the high notes, short shadows of fear and doubt and my biggest regrets. In the low notes, my sorrow paints Ave Maria with interpretive dance. Action painting is fun but requires no talent. There. I said it. Now a raven will peck my pupils out with pure, putrid spite. Women are never allowed to step out of line. Ever. And it’s not the men that are holding us stagnant. In my honeyed mind, a hive of sisterhood not many of even the sharpest sisters can break free of. How can a woman be liberated without the approval of women? Intellectualism offers me a beer that tastes like piss and dissertations, and I gag. Get this flagrant minutiae out of here. I want God sized truth, to dance my way away from this lunging sisterhood of desperate bees. Bees that attack. Bees that die while they wound you. Bees that dance their way to a manna of social acceptance I can only dream of. It is the year the valleys will glow in the dark. What do we do now?
Miniature Moon 