“And so our husbands write sonnets for us, sculpt statues of us, name their ships and their cities after us, all while smothering the wives and mothers they claim to adore in their own wedding sheets. They kill us without apology, just as a lion feels no shame for killing its prey: after all, why should one fret over the life of something that exists solely to be consumed? But I don’t want to be fodder anymore. We are of the same stuff as they, and I will flay our innards bare to prove it.”

30 tracks