Goddesses.
They call you that, hoping mythology could contain you.
Like you were,
salt in curry.
Measured. Dispensed.
Goddesses;
myths stitched around men.
Stories that fold your limbs, your voice, your rage
into the origin of some god who asked for you
only when it was too late, even in make-belief universes.
Every “you are divine”
is another fairytale etched into the enamel of your ribs.
Obsession parading as reverence.
Fear pretending to be devotion.
Your body, a blueprint for their inadequacy,
their hunger, their need to feel bigger than their bones.
Indian goddesses?
Salt. Spice. Flavour.
Use when convenient.
No arcs of their own. No fire untethered.
Every legend begins with a man:
a god, a sage, a king, a poet.
You exist to complete him.
To adorn him. To justify him.
Every whispered, “You are a goddess,”
a measurement tape around your chest,
a cage disguised as worship.
Flattery is betrayal in a snake’s skin.
Smooth. Polished. Venom lined.
It waits.
Every compliment a prelude to possession,
every praise a quiet injunction to obey.
They tell you you are revered,
and in that reverence lies your shackles,
lukewarm, rationed, disposable.
But the mask rips.
The serpent sheds its skin.
The mythology cracks.
Temples burn. Ash rains.
You are not salt.
You are the flood that wipes them bare,
the fire that liquefies their rituals,
the gravity they cannot cage.
Goddesses?
No.
You are chaos.
You are the aftertaste of myths written around your absence.
You are the pulse they could not measure.
The story they never finished.
The scream they tried to silence.
The storm they were never ready for.
Worshipping goddesses is just another tale lost in translation,
another myth folded, measured, and auctioned.
Flesh and bones defeat clay,
every day in and every day out
outlast marble, myth, and gods of men.
No comments:
Post a Comment