What Am I?
There are those who would say I am of the fairer sex
But would they really call me fair
If I ripped their chests open, in the Mad One’s thrall?
Would they still say it is fair
As my sisters howl over their dismembered corpses?
It would be fair to assume not
And some still would say I am of the weaker sex
But it is not weakness
Which commands the swaying and the stomping
Neither is it weakness
Which ensures the culling of the sick, and the slow
It is only the weak who fall
Then, there are those who say I am wicked
I will not argue, in my wickedness
But will only say, come closer
Do you not wish to know my wickedness?
It is demure, and small, and very, very shy
When your lips first accept my wicked kiss
And then you will die
For none may rightly taste
The lips of a Maenad
Without paying the fair price
For their weak-willed
And wicked self-righteousness
May You be pleased, Dionysos, Who dwells deep in my blood, Who calls me into the dark, into the danger, into the wild, once again.