How she ruined you--dancing in the Saturnalia moonlight, rubbing women's history into her dishpan hands. Twelve years of giggling at your celebratory floats and striped ties, mocking you with her Queen Elizabeth wave. Gloria Steinem had her clip your balls, wanted your head on a platter. The Rapture: she taught your daughters to use Swiss Army knives and pronounce misogyny.
I know. I was beaten for twelve years, too. She was waiting every day, heavy gold rings on all fingers. She'd slap me to the ground, anger branding me. It was for my own good: girls like me were blinded by filthy boys, strangled by devil-talk on telephones. I didn't slink about holding hands, I bleached them. And when I escaped, I danced in veils at midnight, cursing her name.
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