Divine

She was called evil.

The way she looked into your soul, and snatched the breath from your throat.

She was called cunning.

The way she danced in the moonlight and swayed her hips left to right, hypnotizing.

She was called enchanting.

The way her eyes softened and lips pouted. The way she held you close in her soft embrace and made your worries melt against her warm skin.

But what did she call herself?

She would look in the mirror and sigh and think about the words others whispered.

She would stare at herself and pin-point the imperfections in her skin. The discoloration and scarring here. The looseness there. Her eyes could be brighter, her nose could be lifted and smaller. Her lips could be fuller.

She would call herself ugly.

She knew she couldn't be, but logic never plays the upper hand in self-sabotage.

She could be slimmer, she would tell herself.

That's it.

Lose the pudge wrapped around the lower area of her torso. Suck and tuck every flabby bit of skin away. Be slender and tight and everything a man would want.

What did she want?

Another sigh.

What if she just wanted to love herself. Wake up in the morning with her hair a mess, her eyes puffy and sleepy, but look in the mirror and be amazed. What if she just wanted to be happy.

Happy in what she did in life. In her accomplishments.

What if she just wanted to be the boss, take all of her beauty and confidence and power and run the world with it.

Sit atop a thrown carried by the backs of a hundred men and laugh at the stigmas and expectations put on her by the world.

She didn't want to be your trophy wife. Your child-bearer. Your kept away toy at home that cleaned and sucked and fucked whenever you liked.

She wanted to be dangerous. A force to be reckoned with. Divine and enlightened by everything that made her feminine.

And her femininity did not make her weak.

Like mother-nature, she commanded the skies to pour or the sun to shine, and you better hope you were on her good side.

She determined the changes in the season, and men could only pray that she show mercy.

Women are goddesses.

There is only one queen bee amongst a million workers, and that's what she wanted. The power, the beauty, the orgasmic energy to be radiating in and around her in everything she did in life.

But how to start?

She would have to decide. She would have to decide to quiet the outside voices. They didn't matter anyways. She would have to consciously decide to love herself.

Not one other person's love would ever be enough if she couldn't fully and deeply be in love with every part of herself.

She would have to choose herself. Choose her life, her happiness, her well-being over someone else's. Maybe selfish at first, but protecting her time and energy had to be the priority.

That energy could be taken and crushed. Not destroyed, but it would be a delay to build back up what was lost.

She would have to be patient with herself. Give herself time to heal, and learn, and grow. Flourish under the right circumstances. But one day she would bloom. Open up to the sky and the light of the sun and embrace all of the power she so rightfully deserved.

She was a goddess.

Not any one thing that any man has ever said to her has ever mattered, and she would truly believe it.

Because what man knows the power of being a woman?

It would be argued they simply can not know, and it is why they spend their entire lives chasing and hunting them down as their prey.

She would call herself a woman.

And there would be no expectations set by men to weigh her down.