She is a wild thing.
And I say “thing”
and not girl or woman
because She is neither;
She is both,
caught somewhere in between
the liberated innocence of childhood
and the maddening corruption of growing up.
And this is precisely what makes Her
wilder than the rest of us.
Some will argue that She is woman and woman only,
leaving little room for,
what are considered by many to be,
girlish trivialities.
But these people have only ever viewed Her
from a respectable distance,
a distance from which She appears to occupy
both the form and the essence of a woman
what with Her full ******* and
the manner in which She writes poetry–
with a sort of opulent brutality.
What you will not see
is the girl
(if that is what you choose to call it)–
the lovely child-beast
that dwells inside of Her,
antlers entwined with garlands
of succulents and autumn leaves,
eyes veiled with an ethereal mist.
A deluge of stardust drips from its lashes,
raining down upon the dry expanse of Her bones,
planting dewdrops in the barrenness–
honeyed globules nourished
by free-spirited ambition
and a nonsensical imagination.
And If it weren’t for you,
child-beast–
if it weren’t for your
incessant howling to the moon
and the sweetly curious expression
you get on your face when you’ve been daydreaming,
then this “woman” would be just that–
a woman and nothing more,
the same way you, lovely beast,
would be a girl and nothing more
if it weren’t for the overpowering
womaness of your host.
Do you recall
how you two first met–
the night She had first made your acquaintance?
How, that next morning, you woke up to find
your Hello Kitty ******* stained red,
a sharp pain stabbing at your belly.
You yelled for your mother
in a panicked shock;
you were convinced you were dying
(and perhaps you were, for this was
the very moment you began to grow up.)
But mama told you that there was nothing
to fret about– all females bleed, after all.
But you have come to realize that
while some bleed by nature,
there are also some who bleed out
of their own free will.
At first, it was Her mere nature that
had caused you to bleed.
And, after that, Her wildness.
But She did not mean to hurt you,
to burden your wrists with the
gravity of Her sorrows.
And so you must understand this,
my beast:
like you, She is a wild thing.
The only difference is that
She is a wild thing with a broken heart.
And there are some days where She
would do anything to quiet
the melancholic fervour of her thoughts.
I can see how this alone has destroyed you,
how you have been leached of your innocence.
I watch as you deteriorate
antlers withering to stubs
eyes weeping
stardust congealing
around your tear ducts
mouth frothing with whiskey
shards of broken bottle
embedded in your palms
your body degraded
blouses with alarmingly low necklines
skirts long enough to cover up
the scars on your thighs
but short enough that they feel
the need to whisper “*****”
when your back is turned
because maybe this
lovely beast
is the only way She knows
how to feel okay.
And maybe you have simply
found yourself caught in the
insatiable crossfire of Her darkness;
because the light you possess
was never enough to save yourself,
and it was certainly never enough to save Her.
No.
The wild in you
was never a match
for the wild in Her.
And it is here
in this state of unadulterated wildness
that everything you are,
everything that She is–
Woman and
child and
Beast alike–
will eventually
be forced to surrender
to the chaos.
This is the place,
wild thing,
where you will be forced to
eat yourself alive.
