These are women’s tails. 

Tales of how to survive a wolf, a spinning needle, a greedy king. 

 Women have often said to me ‘I come from a long line of witches’

I come from a long line of women who had a pustular ball of fat called shame, injected into their heart.

I come from a long line of women, harking back to being raped by the redcoats as children.  Our country represented by the symbols of the rapists.  And they expect us submissive and whole.

I come from a long line of women who had every outlet for their creativity blocked by men and the community of men. 

I come from a long line of quiet women.  Observant women.  Women of peace.

And women who were Bullied and couldn’t fight back.  Whose bones sing songs of an innocence that was never killed. 

And the remnants of that.  This machismo and hate in the shape of a man, speaking as softly as a wolf.

Telling me I’m this.  Telling me that I’m that.  All ways. 

The prick of a spinning wheel in the shape of a man. 

The hardest thing for an abuser is that they have to justify the abuse. Spinn the names into being.  Chew us all up. 

Till we almost believe that our names were in their mouths the whole time.

And how they mouth, all over the world wide web the spiders do crawl. Spinning a jealous fibre.  Flame resistant.  Smooth to the touch. 

And once our names have been twisted and turned and mascilated with the most acid of toungs  After we have stabbed ourselves in the heart and gone back to carry the knives, to carry our abusers, to protect them from hurting themselves like babies that constantly crawl towards the stairs.

After we sit for a while and realise we didn’t make this soup of filth so we don’t have to make it edible.

After we swim in the ocean and listen to whale songs.

After we don our silke suits and leave our human ones we must search for our names.  Unlock our own hearts.  Look for the golden key on the oceans floor.

The golden key is

Because when he said that you were abusive, he never said how.

Or when.

Or why.

Hitchens razor lets in the light

The golden key sparkles.

It dissolves the pustular ball of fat called shame,

When he would blame your love for harming him.

Be proud. 

If the truth of what he did hurts him.

Be brutal.

Empathy is the curse that keeps on taking,

Be cold.

Like the ocean at midnight. 

Be as opaque as the depths.

As still as a stingray on the ocean floor.

When he says stay, don’t fall asleep.

Run.

When he says run grab a bat and count down from 3.

 Say I come from a long line of women, who ate men like this for breakfast. 

Your bruises will heal, but he will remain a fist in search of a wall. 

A wolf in search of a meal.

The less walls he can find.  The less meals.

He’ll go back to hiding in the shadows, when you step out into the sun.