The barren woman has the last laugh
like a blow to the back of the head, a knife through butter
these things are simple
I've seen a grave that belongs to me, and I've walked with men who comb the streets

here I lay, here I sleep, here I propose aloud the mystery of my position as I am both now and never;
she who hunts; she who burns
she who does not unto others but unto herself

and I am the weapon and I am the wound

and I am a visage of un-reality - the snake that writhes in circles to devour itself;
a kind of destruction, a kind of re-birth