for Patrick Henry
Love, I can’t help but to dwell in false hope. I lay in a perfect plaster until I am dissolved into submissiveness. Is this the face of wise women, entangled in a struggle for independence? Am I predisposed to be part of those martyrs, shelving their sanity for tyrannical, marital confines? Whatever fury it may summon, I am willing to tell you the truth; for you to know the worst of your sister; so you may account for it:
I cannot foresee the future, but I can predict from the past. Judging from the past, I wish to know what foul cerebral discrepancies warrant the oppression she inflicts upon those she perceives to threaten her familial order. It is her cooing, incestuous figure with which all your complaints are appeased. Ask yourself how this ostracizing usurper, disguised as a reverent daughter and doting sister, sets precedent of a woman de-shackled from patriarchal worship and its masochistic artifice. No woman will pick the fungus off your feet as she. No woman will survive birthing your offspring under her death wishes, for she destines herself to possess any product of your affections. For as long as her duplicity is covert, and her treason catered for your paramour, you are a demon’s blind subject.
We are overwrought and exhausted. No amount of love will supersede her puppetry, the indictments I have suffered from incessant, intricate manipulations. I have lain supine, and the tethers that have kept me compliant have grown fringed and soft. Why stand here idle? I have mustered the strength to cut those chains that kept me fighting in vain. I know not what course other women may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!