wild woman,
what language do you dream in,
what fire taught you to whisper
in a way that makes the earth
hold its breath?
they call you too much
because they’ve never met a storm
that didn’t know its own name.
tell me:
what is it like to walk barefoot
on the edge of everything
they told you to fear?
you,
with your hair full of constellations
and your mouth full of questions
that make the world stutter.
you,
who turns the word “no”
into a dance,
a hymn,
a war cry.
you are the poem
they forgot to say
when they built their towers
and burned the woods
you call home.
wild woman,
you do not ask for permission.
your love is not gentle,
it is the hurricane that drowns doubt.
you kiss like you are planting forests
on tongues too used to silence.
you do not break,
you birth;
bodies,
hearts,
truths
that were never meant to be hidden.
and yet
your hands are soft
in ways they do not deserve,
your touch is a story
they can only read in the dark.
you are the kind of lover
who traces scars
like maps to freedom.
the kind of goddess
who sees every wound
as a seed
waiting to bloom.
wild woman,
tell me:
when they called you sinner,
did you laugh?
did you feel the soil beneath you
quake with joy
at their misunderstanding?
you were never broken,
only untamed,
and isn’t that the holiest thing
you can be?
when i hold you,
i do not try to contain you.
i only ask
to stand in the fire of your becoming,
to let your wildness
teach me how to love
without shackles,
how to see the divine
in the way you arch your back
and howl at the moon.
wild woman,
you are the hymn
every caged thing sings.
and i am the one who kneels,
not in submission,
but in reverence,
to love you
in ways that don’t ask you
to quiet down,
to stay still,
to soften the edges
of your ecstasy.
i want to love you
with hands open wide,
to let your chaos
rearrange me
until i am something
holy.
tell me:
how does it feel
to finally remember
that you were never meant
to be tamed?
