Herstory, Not History

(for Virginia Woolf) She wanted to buy some flowers but drowned Herself instead, drifting along the ebbing flow of time, with warm water cracking Her slim figure and airless lungs. ‘will I freeze the river?’ She thought, wondering if the trees would still rustle in the wind if She wasn’t alive to notice it, thinking if Her man’s heart would still beat if She could no longer shock its rhythmical thump-thud-stop with kisses. the wood was chopped down around Her home. The veranda from which She surveyed the world was but deafened by cruel hacking chopping and sawing at the hands of men whom took Her feminine beauty away. She became the water as She died, became the weeds, became the bark that broke her own back, the pen and the phallus. ‘this isn’t purgatory’ She realised, ‘this is revenge and reward’. ‘I am a sacrifice to literature. I am a sacrifice for the word’. from writer to death to glory to ink to the lies under rocks uncovered, to god to me to the taking of Her own life, She is the paper in our very hands.