My darling Sarah. Fear not. I am not who they say I am. I am not where they say I am. I am here. In this now. In this space. And I write to you with careful words, in well calculated blows of ink onto a scented note pad I stole from the bookshop across my home. I do not say this with shame. There is no longer space for shame in my life. There is courage and life and daring in my bones. There is energy whose source I cannot find. But it keeps me out of surviving and into living. Kick starts me every morning and builds into my vessels a fuel I cannot help but praise the gods for.
The last time you saw me you were peeking at me through closed curtains. I was nothing close to human that night. I was nothing that required empathy or sympathy. I was animalistic. I was mammal. I was open blood vessels and skin matter on mahogany tables. I was a lesson to be taught and they were the teachers. I was not my father’s daughter anymore. I belonged not to my family, not to you. I belonged to the world and they did with me what the body does to things it feels it does not need anymore.
I believe our eyes made eye contact in the last moments when I thought my soul would tear away from my body. My spirit had become weary and my body had become the remains of Sodom and Gomorrah, charred and unrecognizable. The space between my legs where you had once made a home was an erupting volcano spewing red venom that resembled God’s wrath.
Maybe it was the look on your face that held my soul prisoner in this encasing. You must have willed me to live and to this day I am not sure if I am grateful or regretful of that. My body has not been so forgiving of that night. I walk around with the scars my fathers generously poured upon my flesh. There is a limp in my left foot and a droopiness in my right eye. There are parts of my scalp that will no longer know the warmth that comes from being covered by hair and I have made my peace with this.
Please tell me. How are my children? I pray for them every morning. The gods must be kind to them. The gods must love them for I have paid for their sins, I have carried my cross and I have died and resurrected so they may have life. Tell me they have an abundant life. Assure me this.
Tell my children about me. When they are older, tell them about us. Tell them how we broke into constellations when the world was nothing but dark skies. Tell them how we bloomed into thorns. How our will surrendered to masters whose whips curled into our skins leaving in them valleys whose streams flowed crimson.
Tell them we loved them like sinners. Tell them we loved them fiercely, passionately and selfishly. Tell them you were the rock that broke. And I was the waterfall that swallowed you. Tell them where we came from we were kings. We were a majestic symphony. We were the children of a God.
Teach them to pray, to themselves. Teach them there are no gods greater than their souls. There are no churches, holier than their bodies and their will is a tabernacle. Tell them there is nothing as sanctified as their thoughts, and minds, and freedom, and these must be worshiped.
Remind them through the windows along their spines that I was an innocent woman. I was a warrior woman. A difficult to love woman. But most of all I was a free woman.
To the love of my heart,