When I was smaller, the night was a wonderful thing. It was something of beauty, a black goddess with stars in her hair. She’d take away your fears and give you something to hold on to. It’s odd for a girl so young to not be afraid of the dark, but it never bothered me. I remember countless nights staring up at the sky and wondering what it is to be a star, those small, yet magnificent little lights in the black shroud above me. But what is it to me now?
They say as you grow older, your fear of the dark will leave, rationality will tell you there are no monsters hiding. But now, I am older, and rationality tells me that the night is where all of them hide.
It is considered wise, as a girl, if you fear for your life when out in the night. If you fear for your virginity. If you fear for your dignity. The night did not grow less scary with age, it grew into something I cannot hope to embrace. I am rejected by it, because of what lies in between my legs.
The stars that once accompanied me on my adventures, have turned into fearful onlookers.
The goddess weeps, for they have made her into a monster.