tell me how to strip off this breastplate and dress myself in pure, lace bodice washed in all shades of subservience, when lilith herself taught me to bare to no man — bow to no man.
the soil of these lands are built on liberation; your ribs stake no claim to what they do not own. they merely return to dust and ashes — the very material of the land you betrayed — the land you watched burn down,
and i'll tell you this: this land, it will drift, shake, crumble to create a catacomb big enough for all the deaths you deserve.
honey, this is no prophecy. this is no threat.
this is justice out of the ribs of those who'd fallen; this is justice at the hands of the oppressed.