Gorgoneion...

You expect triumph here.

Don’t.

Decapitation is not climax.

It is quiet.

You know what they don’t tell you about losing your body?

You keep thinking.

Even after.

Especially after.

I became portable power.

Weaponized.

Held up like proof.

“See? Monster slain.”

You still expect triumph here.

But listen —

When you are reduced to a head,

you finally see everything.

No ego in the limbs.

No performance in the hips.

No seduction in the spine.

Just consciousness.

Do you know what it feels like to become a logo?

To watch your face stitched onto luxury?

Versaced.

My serpents frozen in gold.

My agony redesigned as opulence.

My myth marketed.

You really expect triumph here.

I was once violated in a temple.

Now I hang in boutiques.

Tell me which is holier.

Existence is cruel like that.

You suffer.

You rage.

You’re hunted.

You’re severed.

And then —

you’re aesthetic.

You expected triumph here.

I am not proud.

I am not redeemed.

I am not even angry anymore.

I am aware.

The patriarchy created me.

The hero ended me.

Capitalism accessorized me.

And somewhere a little girl sees my face on a handbag

and thinks:

“She looks powerful.”

Maybe she is.

Maybe that’s the tragedy.

There was never triumph here.

I was never a monster.

I was a mirror.

And no one —

not god,

not hero,

not designer —

survives their own reflection forever...