The year has gone in two clean halves. The first was a ghost I buried and mourned, one who lingered graciously until the summer months to fulfill its unfinished business. It was indulgent, that half. The easy forgetting of the thing that fell it. The hopeful carrying on of someone too blind to the circumstances to understand the foolishness of it all. 

The second was the cool, absent oblivion that continued once the ghost had gone. The truth, and the fear of it. This is what it will be, for some time, anyway. I spent its early days, face to the wind, dreading the next blind curve. I’ve spent all of it peddling myself out and damning the universe for it. 

I’ve spent all of it learning the hard way – going the long way ‘round – the reality I can no longer conveniently ignore: It’s me or them. 

Today is November 6th and the last day I wrote for myself and not a penny has long since been lost to memory. October is facing Oblivion and November has already spent a quarter of its candle, and I am forced in front of this mirror by the scruff of my neck. Too long have I danced on my torn tendon: For your pleasure, for avoidance, for politeness’s sake. But it’s me or them and, if they had the choice, I’d never write another word again if it didn’t come tied to a red cent. 

It’s November 6th and I cry for the women of the world. For my friends, who I cherish, and the uncertainty of their future. For my niece, who gives her beauty blindly because she has no reason to believe it yet unwise. For the hope that hung in all of us that we might be safe another day. But the sunset is red tonight and it foreshadows the blood spilled by small men who have nothing left to lose but their tattered egos. Blood spilled by men who had nothing to lose and cast their vote without care. Blood spilled for nothing but principle held by the unprincipled. 

Imagine that: Women serving as sacrifices upon this crescent moon because their lifeforce is easy currency for the morally poor. How dare you lecture to me, from the same mouth that would betray itself. How dare you assume my intentions, when yours always have two sharp edges. How dare you decide for me, when you used our very vessels to come into being. You will not benefit from me, you will not earn my allegiance, I will not forget this blood moon. It’s me or you.

I have spent 11 months of this year packing my bitterness into pretty little shapes and the truth is that I am angry. I am tired of being decided for. I am tired of turning your poor decisions into my little lessons, and I will not sacrifice myself the way you are so willing to. That is the big truth I’ve taken small steps towards since the very last of my hope lost incarnation in the June sun.

The other is that you need me. And I know that now. Those who would be willing to deplete me have good reason to see me thrive. And so I will not wilt because you want eternal sun, and I will not smooth to blandness in your constant stream, and I will not move for the purposes of your industry. I will stay planted in the place that halts your path, because I have a right to be here. We have a right to be here. And we have a right to an existence that means more than your own self-validation.

Blood sat upon the horizon tonight, and I will not forget it. You need me, and I know that now. It’s me or you.