The Rib

Woman came from mans rib.

Or wait... no.

Then again... yes?

No... that cant be right.

I have all my ribs...

My father has all of his...

I did not come from a rib...

But women must have.

This is what i have been told again and again.

But if my sister has not come from my fathers rib...

Who's rib has she come from?

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I came from some place warm and soft and strong...

I came from a womb.

A womans womb.

I am a man...

Should god not have created me by hand?

Should he not have created a woman from my rib?

If i came from a womb...

And my father has all of his ribs...

Then i must assume my sister must come from where i have.

My mother.

And if my sister came from my mother...

Then my mother must have come from her mother.

Where is man in this process?

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I have heard him called seed...

But, i know from class, the woman holds the egg...

I have heard him called fertilizer...

But plants must be fertilized more than once.

It seems to me intentional, that man was given minimal part in the process of creating life.

It seems to me we are our mothers children.

Not our fathers.

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And if our fathers were to lie to us about where women come from...

Could they not lie about god?

There is already one falsehood...

Are there more?

They call him all powerful.

All knowing.

All good.

I have been told this all before.

By my father.

By his sacred book.

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But if he is all powerful and all knowing...

Then he is allowing suffering...

So, Then he must not be all good.

And if he is all good and all powerful...

Then he does not know of all the suffering occurring...

So, Then he must not be all knowing.

And if he is all good and all knowing...

Well then he must be in a large amount of grief...

For me and him share those skills through modern advancement...

The world at my fingertips on a glass screen i cannot reach through...

And if i am in his image...

And i am in this torrent of pain...

He must be very sad indeed...

And he must not be all powerful.

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And if he is truly all of these things we have been told...

Then he must be fiction.

It is woman who creates life.

Not man.

Not god.

So i will not follow this fiction.

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I have found a Goddess...

She does not pretend to be something she is not...

She is dark and shadowed in purple hue...

She is quiet...

She is calm...

And at times she is violent...

She does not conceal her rage...

That is why the woods at night carry no human voice...

The people fear her because she does not conceal her danger...

I love her.

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She provides me kindness in the form of honesty...

I know her dangers and walk amongst them freely without fear of the unknown.

she announces herself with twigs snapping and animal growls.

She watches me from bushes and from a great single silver eye that only opens fully once per month.

Her skeletal and sometimes lush branches snag at my clothes as she reaches to pull me closer to her warm soil.

Her thorns scrape at my skin pulling crimson sacrifice for her altar.

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Man has never given rib to create.

But for her i would pull each from my chest and reveal to her my heart.

She would not refuse me.

Her followers would come.

They would feast upon what they may and allow my rot to satiate her leaves.

And Man would be part of sustaining life.

With still no hope of creating it.

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Our mother is watching.

Our mother is angry.

Our mother is disappointed.

And her sons have turned their backs on her.