I watched intently as the sink dripped hard against porcelain bowl, barely leaking, but enough to keep you up at night. Drip, drip, drip. This constant trickling made me wonder if everything in my life was barely broken, but enough to need fixing.
Her hair falls not in flawless curls around a porcelain face.
No. It flows into the hungry wind a lion's mane.
Her laugh tinkles not like so many silver bells.
No. It crashes and bubbles an ocean tide.
Her desires hide not under the glass of an innocent exterior.
No. They smolder on the surface of her skin. Volatile fires by turn gentle flames or blazing infernoes.
To be a wild girl is both a gift and a curse. To feel everything from love to hate at the base of your throat and the heart of your soul. To be both feared and wanted by strong and weak men. To live one's life searching for one whose heart is strong enough to run alongside someone so free.