By Amberdawn Collier

I had a glittering pen,

with gold and silver plating,

fish-like scales that glinted

with every turn,

given to me by an aunt,

a God-fearing, Christian woman

who hoped I'd be a replica of her,

pushing out babies like a factory machine,

content to be told that as a woman,

she was weak,

couldn't speak out loud in church,

couldn't be equal with a man -

that little "y" makes such a difference.

An aunt who never dreamed

that I would take the golden angel off the top

and use the pen to write things like

Lesbian

Feminist

Pagan

Being raised as God-fearing myself,

I was so often torn.

I was evil.

I was wrong.

I had been seduced

by the devil in the form

of a tall curvaceous brunette.

My hands would twirl the pen,

nervous, sweaty, frightened,

I read my Bible,

I said my prayers,

I sought forgiveness,

I sought a radical overhaul of my brain,

a virtual lobotomy of my identity.

Through this, the pen was with me,

a shining reminder

of the beauty I was not.

But after a while,

the shiny gilt surface

began to wear off.

Underneath was an ugly metal base.

And suddenly,

I wasn't bothered

anymore.