Marriage is death, not union – sorrow, not joy. The end of autonomy, of freedom, the caging of the bird. The cutting of the owl’s throat, the silencing of the wren’s trill. It is the pernicious yoke that binds, the fatal pin that binds the butterfly to the velvet mount. Lace dresses, gossamer veils, sparkling tiaras, all symbols of a ritual intended to bind a free soul to that which annihilates it. They are props in a play, part farce, part tragedy, a prelude to rape, a rape of the spirit. What sprite will ever be content, contained in a bottle? What songbird flourishes whose life is spent in a cage?

Be not deceived by promises, vows, sweet words of love, devotion, look not at glittering jewels for the one, that faceted gem we women are told to yearn for and prize beyond all else, is intended to bind your soul forever.

“Two souls intertwined” -no, one soul in permanent bondage to the other – to have, to hold, to enslave.

What is entered into in mourning cannot produce joy, and marriage is a contract, not a love note. A transaction, not a sacred ceremony. All we read and see and hear of blushing brides and gallant grooms are the stuff of fairy tales and glossy magazines presenting us with gilded images, intended to make us forget what marriage is, persuading us to focus only on the aesthetics pertaining to the day itself.

Once “I do” is uttered, bands of gold exchanged, guests leaving, cake cut and eaten, the mask falls off, the make-believe dance of courting, of convincing, of manipulating the untethered soul to exchange her freedom for a Mrs. and a new surname.