Can't Stop Thinking About Night Country. That Feminine Rage Is Cold And Hard; Old, Older Than Everything

Can't stop thinking about Night Country. That feminine rage is cold and hard; old, older than everything else, and buried deep. That a woman alone is a dead woman; a woman alone is the most dangerous thing. That a man's ego is more important than a woman's life. That a woman who speaks up isn't silenced, she's destroyed. That women are strongest when they're together, when they speak, when they sing. When they're seen.

That what men want for themselves is reason enough to lay waste to everything else. That when it's weighed on the scales, their chance to live a little longer is worth more than a baby's first breath. That they'll do whatever it takes, even when it poisons all of our water.

How a mother dies and her daughter dies too, but a son can't live until he's killed his own father. How women only have power when they lie, assume the role of men, align themselves to men, or die.

And when they will no longer clean up after them.

When they honor who came before, paint the protest on their face, and learn their real name. When they emerge from the ice, leave the night behind and walk toward the sun instead of into the sea. When they shape their own stories. When their tongue is returned to them.

What a fucking masterpiece.

I guess she wanted to take them. I guess she ate their fuckin' dreams from the inside out and spit their frozen bones.

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