Ventriloquy looks different on women,

more familiar. Countless tries to bury the puppet master — not to condemn free-will, or women, but their strings are long and thin…

more familiar. Countless tries to bury the puppet master —
not to condemn free-will, or women, but their strings are
long and thin, spider-silk, leading into the shadows where
a man with golden crowns glinting from just above his drool
chin pushes both feet into the wall for balance muttering “dance”.

Somewhere, probably close, a women is told something unfathomable,
something about worth or penetration — and we pray to something
for the strings to snap.