They shape us into molds gently prodding and poking.
But as we grow the mould starts to crack
We question if this is meant to be, was I meant to be your little sex doll to be raped and beat up, called a whore whenever you felt the whimsy?
Our hands push at the clear mold, which starts to shudder. Spiderweb cracks span out from our hands.
They get angry. Their voices loud. They shove harder and harder until even behind the mould we bleed and bruise. They say “if you weren’t a woman” “if you weren’t wearing that” “this is your fault, I have to punish you.”
The words stab like knives. Blunt words hammer us until chunks fall off and breaking smaller and smaller for a shoddy fit into the mould
We start to really struggle now because we can’t live. Can’t breathe. It’s killing us.
We are silently screaming but our ribs and voices crack on shame. Shame that we didn’t realize the endgame. Shame that we didn’t fight back harder. Shame at what we know people will say when they see our bodies perfect and yet our minds and hearts broken
We ask why
Why should it be this way why was I born a woman why am I your sacrifice why is my pain your pleasure.
Is this torment a result of my sins? What are my sins?
The answer comes
You were born a woman.
Your birthright is rape, abuse, to be dominated. To be lost. To be property. To be molded as seen fit.
You were born a woman. A Mormon woman.
For your own good you must be contained, you were born a whore and you will always be a whore. It is only by my teaching you have any prayer of salvation.
And the more you struggle against my teachings as your master, your god, the more you will be punished by my god. The God who gave you to me.
You will be damned for questioning my right to fuck you.
But one girl got away. She had waited. Silently gathering strength as she heard the screams of her sisters. Deep within her an iron hard courage was forged. Heated redhot by the faith that there was a god and if he was truly Lord of lords he would never allow this.
She shattered the mold with her bruised and bleeding fists and burned broken and bleeding she ran from hell.
She went to the cross to pray. To meet this God and make him come to Jesus. Ask him why. Why he suffered this. He was no God if this was his doctrine. She kneeled to pray for guidance and protection.
She heard the whisper of robes
a hand closed on her shoulder.
She looked to the priest
And saw the rapist in his eyes.
The congregation of whispering voices gathered around. She could smell heavy perfumes, see a blur of painted faces. Hear the click of respectable shoes. See the black of respectable suits.
They told her they cared, they promised her things. Salvation. Love. The help she desperately needed. To always be there for her.
They also mocked her brokenness. The nails pounded into her flesh to contain her in the mold. Her broken mind and spirit. They called her a glorifed whore. A liar. They blamed her for her wounds and questioned the reality of the bruises. The salt of her blood.
Each of them who proffered hands to beckon her into the fold, who said they had felt the imprints of the nails in Christ”s hands, carried a hammer and a coffin nail.
The priest came forward and proclaimed in a loud voice
“Bed me in the name of God, or you will forever be damned. Whore. This is your only salvation is to carry my holy children and serve me, your lord, for the rest of your life.”
She stood there trembling. She looked up slowly into the eyes of the man who spoke with all the fervor of a holy man, but who was a devil from hell
“I am.no.whore. I am a woman. I am the queen. You have tried to take, suppress, tame and kill me. But I am more powerful than you with your holy words and soft lies. I will open my throat and scream my agony to the skies. I will not rest until my sisters and I are free of you, the master of lies.” She spat in his face.
“I choose damnation”