Black is freaking beautiful! — Xn Han | DeviantArt

Divine Retribution

My body
is a temple;
I am its sole goddess

Only my chosen and anointed
may tread its hallowed halls.

My temple looms magnificent:
an edifice of stupendous proportions
boasting a forest of openwork pinnacles
and lofty steel spires that impale clouds
yet reach higher still with spear tips
poised to prick angels’ feet.

Heathens from every station
behold my temple in its full glory —

they cast lust-filled gazes
at my pointed arches, 
ribbed vaults and
flying buttresses.

Those whose bravery
extended as far as a catcall or leer
catcalled or leered.

Bolder pagans stretched
wretched irreverent hands
to touch — to grope — the bas-reliefs
carved on my smooth stone walls
and polished marble gates.

They pleaded to be let in.
They demanded to be let in.

When I rejected
their insincere offerings, 
sacrifices and prayers, 
they resorted
to flattery
to guile

To force.

If I would not
willingly permit them
worship at my altar,

they would knock down my temple
and build bordellos in its place.

They invaded my temple, 
slaughtered my chief priests,
desecrated my inner sanctum,
ransacked my sacristy,
looted my treasures

Left me in ruin.

A divine court of gods and men
assembled to adjudge retribution
for the sacrilege suffered to me.

As if justice was theirs to dispense.

I listened to these
self-professed sages speak,
watched their loose lips move
but heard their rotten wisdom
whoosh out of their backsides —

the noxious stench
assailing my nostrils
with the fervour
of a silent fart.

A ferret-faced demigod
defended the barbarians;

he chided me for flaunting
my temple’s extravagant beauty,

that if I’d clothed my temple
in a more demure design,

that if I’d favoured
an austerer style,

the infidels would not
have lost their reason
and besmirched me
.

I read quiet assent
on the court’s faces

And as the gathering
shifted into a predictable contest
of godhoods and manhoods, 
I felt Samson’s strength
stir deep in my sinews.

I pushed against the pillars
till the colonnades gave out
and collapsed the building on them:
gods, mortals, hybrids, heroes —

I killed them all.

I charioted my rage
in pursuit of the bastards,
chased them across seven seas

to the ends of the earth
where I buried them beneath
a thousand torments,
strung them up
for all to see.

Brick by brick
I rebuilt my temple
to even greater opulence.

Burnt frankincense and myrrh
to repair the parts of me I could,
leaving the wounds only time
could attempt to salve.

And when they do heal
I will wear the scars as battledress
to war with any disputer or violator 
of this universal truth:

A woman exists
for no one’s pleasure.
Her body belongs to her alone;
it is not a contested space to be 
defined, restricted, claimed 
or abused by fools who 
erroneously believe 
themselves entitled 
to her body.