This is a poem I wrote after a most disturbing dream, tied to a memory from the school bus when I was very small. Not only did my parental example muddy my understanding of what and how to consent, but also the culture. The way that the teachers found amusement when the girls squealed, speaks to the general twisted nature of how GIRLS are treated. Never allowing themselves to grow up, because everyone wants a good girl. Too many are afraid and act out of fear towards a powerful woman. Because a Powerful Woman has undone these ethereal cages placed on her in childhood. She cannot be predicted. She cannot be controlled. And she is Beautiful.
On these matters and many more, I pray to La Santa Muerta. She denies no one, because death will find us all in our time, and has a following/origin in Mexico City. She is popular amung sinners, prostitues, gay people, and generally anyone who has been “left behind” or works outside of the general community. I have battled suicide for my guilt and hopelessness, and she reminds me that there is always more between me and those bones.
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