on the sixth day.

I'm alternating between terror and fury, trying to get words down on a page before they're ripped from my fingers, between anger and despair as I press those same fingers against my abdomen and think of all the women who now fear their wombs, forced to be strangers in their own bodies, at war with their very biology.

This is not the piece I wanted to write. This was meant to be a celebration, a tearing through of the fabric, a shattering of the ceiling, a rocket ship straight to the stars. 

This is the quicksand we feared when we were children--thick, alien, inescapable. A poison without an antidote. A slow, syrupy sinking sucking us right back into the soil. I can feel it wrapping itself around my ankles, calculated and cold as it creeps past my knees. 

The ground is slipping out from under us. May our faces stay turned upward, may our eyes stay fixed on the sky.