The martyr was an aborted, half dead fetus. A half-light. Grey and small, she fit in my palm. My tears spilled over her.
You will no longer hide behind the people you serve dear martyr. You are so tired. Go to your grave and rest now. We shall do more in love this way. The soil shall be your blanket. The roots of the grass shall be your guardians. When it is time, follow them towards light. Your little fingers shall grasp God’s thumb and you will suckle on Goddess’s breasts. Let sky, moon, sun, wind, rain and sun raise you. You choose what you rise as.
I knelt and with martyr in my palm, I submerged her in my bath water and then into wet earth. I stood and wept. I took hands with myself.
As I walked away from the graveside of the martyr, a white pathway lined with columns appeared. Many hands reached out to guide me up the path’s incline. I ascended higher until I arrived at a balcony and rested my hands upon the ledge. I saw my queendom from the highest vantage point I’d ever known. The animals below me bowed. I lifted my palms to the sky. God sent down the light and the light I sent to the hearts of all the animals and they sent it back to me.
Beyond my realm were other queendoms: independent and interdependent and in love.
T’was the day we buried the martyr that I became empty. Empty enough to receive the entire download. It was a file entitled “me.”