It's not true; what they say.
That I'm an angry feminist who hates men.
Once upon a time, I was pissed; that's certain.
Lately, though, I've mainly felt sad.
Sharing words of empathy for all of their repression and suppression,
for their loss of expression and freedom,
for the wounded ways that keep their tears from spilling.
My brothers simply haven't been afforded the same time and space to
acknowledge their collective pain, to reclaim their heavenly bodies
in the way that we women have had to do for far too long now.
Once upon a time, I sank deeper into me by wrapping my strong arms
around their hurting, offering softness in lieu of bitter judgment.
I discovered self compassion in the process; but, in the end,
I can't love myself through another.
I can only address my refusal, to focus my intention like a pin-pointed,
laser beam; my resistance, to stridently strike out towards my passionate
convictions; and my fear, of claiming what is rightfully mine for the taking.
I can only embody the truth of my deep, eternal LOVE
by consistently showing up and steadfastly committing to my purpose.
I honor your Divine Masculine by now safely containing
the chaotic flow of my Divine Feminine.
