He saw you naked in your sacred spring,
your sacred heart sprawled out on the grass.
He saw you, at last, after all the layers shed,
he saw you as Woman.
He forgot about the Goddess.
When you lifted your arms to feel the sun,
all he could imagine
was holding them down.
I know you never taunted him, Artemis.
Your skin is not an invitation,
has never been a neon sign.
The line of your body, the curve of your spine
is not a welcome mat.
He cannot scrape his feet on you
and leave you in the street.
You know this.
When he stole this part of you,
this part that makes you Goddess,
you took what made him human in return.
If only I learned from you, Artemis.
If only we all learned from you,
from the moment we were born,
that our bodies are our bodies.
That we can take back what’s been stolen,
that we don’t have to just stand there and burn.