We are the women of Jerusalem, and we are queens

We are the women of Jerusalem.

We wake up radiant and furious.
We wear last night’s eyeliner like war paint and call it intentional.
We stand on balconies sipping lukewarm coffee, contemplating both the Book of Psalms and what whisky we want to take to the miklat.

We are queens. But not the Disney kind.
No birds dress us in the morning. The birds are doves, and they cry.

Or pigeons. And they ruin our laundry.

We are the high priestesses of the group chat.
We send screenshots like sacred texts.
We say “I’m fine” and mean “I have contemplated burning everything to the ground but made dinner instead.”

We are soft and terrifying.
We know where the pain is buried. We know where the receipts are kept. But we forgot why we went to the kitchen.

We wear crowns made of expired rav kavs, red-thread bracelets, pearls, and the names of people we’ve lost.

We have been told we are “too much,” “too loud,” “too emotional,” “too tired.”
And yet we show up. With later night’s eyeliner. And protest signs. And Band-Aids. And opinions.

We are the queens of the checkout line, the bomb shelter, the hospital, the cemetery, the school WhatsApp group, the mikveh, the therapist’s office, and the dance floor.

We are contradictions in heels, in Crocs, in combat boots. Barefoot on the stones our ancestors walked.

We are prophetesses.
We are hot messes.

We birth babies and revolutions. Sometimes at the same time.

We fall apart quietly in stairwells and then lead fundraising campaigns like warriors.
We forget the laundry and remember the name of every child killed in every war since 1929.

We flirt. We cry. We ghost. We grieve.

We dare to love again after everything. We dare to hope when hope is stupid.
We dare to laugh in the face of men who think we should know our place.

We know our place:

We are queens of Jerusalem.
We are built from limestone and raw beating hearts.
We are the reason this city still breathes.

And you — if you are lucky enough — may catch us glowing at golden hour,
mouth full of curse words and glad tidings,
walking contradictions,
Eyes brimming,
Lips curving,
inherited holiness
a blessing we bequeath.