The story of a wild woman

The birds are singing before I’ve found my way to sleep.

I’ve curled myself around my waiting dreams and a purring cat

But something inside me won’t stop,

There are words struggling to be freed from the confines of my skin

And so, I turn on my laptop and dutifully type.

I must let these words write themselves, lest their nagging never cease.

I am a servant to the stories bottled up in my head.

Sometimes they send me on great adventures to amuse themselves.

Sometimes the stories throw me into crazy situations, make me go home

With wild men, or salacious women.

The stories will only be satisfied by excess, rebellion and insanity.

Am I these things? Am I this wild being?

This night sprite?

A slave to the foolish urges of unwritten stories?

Yes.

I have chosen to run the winds and let down my hair, long and luscious

To throw myself urgently into the chaos of living

To be always on the precipice of being and creation.

For I want stories to spill from me like blood from my veins,

Or breath from my lungs.

I want to be the greatest story I’ve ever told.

I want one day to lay on my dying bed, laughing at the things I have done.

I want my memory to be a reason to dance and to scream,

My name an abbreviation of cautionary tale.

I want always to burn with passion

And never deny the heat between my legs

Or the inspiration in my heart

For I am the story of a wild woman.

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