They say that if it rains while the Sun is shining, the devil must be beating his wife.
The devil’s wife says,
This saying must have come from a man. Men are all so afraid of a little pain. But no one falls into the devil’s lap on happy accident. I went willingly. Open heart. Open arms. And yes, open legs. I chose the devil as my lover.
But all he could see was a woman, mortal-shaped, fragile, breakable, his queen and his wife but not his equal. Even with his fingers snaking into my hair like temptation, even when I could smell the blood on his hands, even when I clawed the skin from his back, he held my braids like kite string.
Men are all so afraid of a little blood. Women aren’t. Women have been beaten their whole lives for their bleeding sex. Choosing the beating now doesn’t make me a victim, because I want it. Not the way a bad girl knows how to take a punch, or the way a woman who has been lied to can grow to believe that she deserves the back of her lover’s hand. I want him to hit me with the same fire he kisses me awake with in the morning.
Don’t tell me a story about being trapped or tricked. Don’t tell me how I fell from grace and into love with him. I carry the Grace with me always, and give it to him, piece by piece, and no matter how it burns, he begs for more.
Hit me, like the sound of the doors to Olympus or heaven closing behind you. Hit me. Like the last time you felt the sun on your skin. Like I have never been less lost than I am right now. Hit me, like the voice of God. Hit me like I am a monster worth taming because I am. Show me the making of an perfect angel or god from my scarred ruin of a lover, red devil, horned thing, hit me like you are the devil and I am your wife and the sun is shining but the clouds are pregnant and wet with wanting and it has to rain sometime if you want to see spring.