Wild Woman

 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?