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My bones hold the secrets of who I could have become had I not tucked my rebellion behind a bitten tongue. There is black in my marrow from the rage, a sort of noble rot, I’m sure. I spent my youth in a prison of pretend meekness and dimmed inner light, prostrate to an angry god created to control and punish those who dared find another voice. The meek do not inherit the earth; but the observant , the kind , the strange ones that have the power of the sun locked in their secret heart, carry the whole of the ocean in their thermos.
The quiet men with wills like oak and faces like moonstones.
The clever, the trickster, the daughters with many faces and souls full of all the magic they can swallow, we know the earth hangs in the sky, and is the birthright of no one.
If I had daughters, they would know the universe is the companion of the thoughtful, the kind, and the brave. That no religion demanding the silence of women is valuable,that your body is a temple only to your spirit, and lovers will make offerings freely. Meekness is the lie of weak men and arcane gods who will be forgotten in the footsteps of those who need no masters but the wisdom of a living earth and their own souls .

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