The Whore and the Holy One

I am suddenly fraught with an indelible urge, and in my aching a sweet, untapped power sleeping in the force of my soul. I was too young to know it then. Then when I was a mere infant, a boy in the eyes of the world; a slave in the eyes of the hag. How I secretly despised her, beheld her with such contempt even as a child when my eyes were knew and my knowledge was little. Since those days, I have changed beyond recognition. The serpent has found me again and again where I’ve hidden; forced me to step further into myself, into the darkness dwelling unsung within me.

My name is Diana, though I go by Di. I am unsure where I come from though I suspect from the old hag’s rambling that I was orphaned via shipwreck. At night, I can hear screams in my sleep. They are faint, almost inaudible. But I hear them. One of them may be the voice of my mother. But I may just be making believe. Much of my story is composed of blank spaces, which I fill in at my leisure.

I am writing this from atop a walnut desk in a stable hearth. There are horses neighing beneath me. And a window in front of my desk that overlooks the pasture and beyond it the little toes of the city. This hearth has become my citadel. The temple of a religion of one. I am married now. He is a good man, though we do not make love. He reveres me too deeply for that, he says.

Still when he is away I touch myself upon sheets of satin and pillows of velvet, my body splayed in the glassy moonlight, fingers off performing their sacred missions, and I think of him hovering over me, inside me, enveloping me; I think of letting go; of sweet, ancient surrender. To him I am holy, but to me I am whore—the slut who longs for consumption in the carnal; the slut who longs to be swallowed whole by the sirens of ecstasy; the happy little curly slut who dreams of my lost homeland, of my mother whose face I do not know, of the gardens, and the honeybees, and the salt swept breezes off the windy coasts.

I am uprooted. A nomad. Even in my marriage. I harbor from him a hidden life, a life he does not see nor could he. I await the day, I admit, when I may return to the endless walking paths, the roads, and the tree lined forests. I await the day when I may once more practice the sacred rituals of my body’s essential nature. And if my feet so will it, find my way back home, wherever home is.

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