May my wrists peel and bleed until numb and raw because I am forever bound to my cause.
Curse the styles and curse the trends. This love is an eternal love, a mad and yet sane worship.
Unchaining us would be akin to ripping the entwined vines above Tristan and Isolt's graves.
Who cares what the schoolyard boys say? That inane tittering is what makes them boys still.
I don't kiss you because I hate men; I don't kiss you because you, child, don't challenge me.
Katy Perry got one thing right and that was her battle cry: "You're going to hear me roar!"
And yet she still refuses to lace herself with the words "feminist" and "feminism."
It's not on every rack in the mall. There's no cute T-shirt. Do or Don't? (Don't.)
Semantics, you say? But the power stems from the letters we cherish and fight for.
Maybe it's not a tether, but a lake, and we must all drink long and deep until satisfied.
The water runs clear and pure, and each of us has a vase we made from fleshy earth.
"Feminist" is the mantra, the password, the Alpha, the Omega, the vines on the headstone.