her body's glazed with sugar
but her soul's made of spice

her grin is chaotic
but it melts down the ice

she howls for the moon
when it births her with light

she's made love with herself
she's made peace with the night

so why would you put her in a dress?
why would you comb her curls out?

why would you tell her to speak softly,
when her heart commands her to shout?

she was raised among wolves.
she did not grow with the roses.

you expect her to change.
well, the wolf in her opposes.

she is reckless.
she is free.

she is her.
she is me.

I always wondered
who taught you how to love
was it the fierce full moon
while it lighted you through a blackout night?
or the night owl
who sweetly sang you lullabies?


it wasn't until I had you
At the darkest hour of the night
Howling under the moon
And saw your hazel eyes
So vulnerable, yet fearless
That I knew
it was the wild wolves
who gently taught you how to love

just keep writing;

write as if the sentences you create
were new languages waiting to be translated

write as if the words side by side
were meeting each other for the first time

write as if the letters on your keyboard, or the ink of your pen
were only created just to make the masterpiece you’re creating.

and don’t doubt yourself ever.

for the words you write,
may be someone’s sorrows,
may be someone’s joy,
may be someone’s hope for tomorrow.