There is a millstone women wear that's been forged by a history of violation. When I sit in the kitchen and read about the boundaries of women's bodies being smothered and snuffed out (rape, disfigurement, mutilation, and abortion) I notice the cushions of flesh around my hips and thighs begin to loosen and slack until they flap against my chair. I feel my torso soften and melt like the day old butter that's been sitting on the counter for too long. I see my womb collapse into a sopping red dish rag that drips bloodied into the cracked, gray tile below. Eventually my transformation is complete--my body dissolves into its billions of particles, floating through the kitchen like clouds of spilled flour. It seems that to be weightless in the air and formless in the ground is safer than walking beleaguered atop the earth. And so we come to the greatest sin of mankind:
To erase the boundaries of a woman's body until she is nothing more than the cloud of flour used to bake your bread.