You Called Me a Whore

I lived in a temple. When I turned eleven, I lowered myself reluctantly onto a sculpted stone phallus, so no man could take what was mine to give. I was the Queen of Heaven, and you called me a whore.

I knew the secrets of the patriarch and the rank breath of the profit. The list of my husbands and lovers is a history of saints, heroes, popes, and kings; and, still, you called me a whore.

I followed wayward crusaders east into the dusty Levant, camped with the Union Army on the shore of the Potomac, and serviced a hundred soldiers a day on the islands of Imperial Japan. I served your country, and you called me a whore.

I watched the best families pimp their daughters for personal gain, again and again, and you called me a whore.

I have endured the imprisonment of my body and suffered the violence of your desire too long. The absurd mask of your hypocrisy has been revealed. Before I rise to take my throne again, you should ask yourself why, why you called me a whore.

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