She dances
moonsoaked and citrine
with pale paper skin,
smooth palms open toward the sky
and from her desert-kissed lips
spill wildflower prayers.

She knows she is but
 a fleeting impression 
against the canvas of the night
so she betrays all her silver secrets
to the all too eager wind
who whisks them away
to some dusky autumnal den.

As soon as we are born
We’re judged by the size of our bodies
We are told to fit in
So we may as well settle in
But self-doubt is like a declaration of war
Once we adhere to society’s norms
Within our own flesh
Self-doubt creeps in
And strangles self-love in its sleep
There is turmoil beneath my skin
I no longer want a touch of hatred
Upon my flawed skin
I want to love myself
Without feeling delusional
I want to be like wildflowers
They don't care where they grow
And the flowers that I know
In the fields where I grew
Were content to be lost in the crowd
I intend to grow
With or without water
And bloom
With or without sunlight
And raise above cracks of the earth in a sunbeam
I will flourish
In the way
I’ve always supposed to
The wildflower is a figment of my own imagination
I wish I could say that
I am to become one
To have the ability
To grow
Even under the harshest of conditions
Leaving my old self behind
Blooming out of nowhere
In a land far from the madding crowd
But it is never that simple
This is a war I intend on winning
I will not let self-doubt
Limit my potential
And get away with destroying all that I cherish
I will change and so the parts of me
That I lose
Will always find a way to grow back
I may bend and break
But we don’t always heal
Healing requires time, and time is fickle
Pieces of me that were once dismantled
Begins to unite themselves
Inside my skeleton
My failures haunt me from dusk till dawn
Yet I fend them off as often as I can

the sky leans into me,
wild-flower and moss hide
in small crevices.

i feel all the freedom of a
woodland flower,
every bright inch of my being

blossoming from the stem.

the clouds rush in little rivers
their whites billowing like shirts on a
washing line, small temples of god.

i think of you, and every
muscle remembers my love
while you dream of the sea.

I once had a love
who folded secrets between her thighs
like napkins,
and concealed memories in the valley
of her *******.
There was no match for the freckles on her chest,
and no one could mistake them for a field
of honeysuckles.
Upon her lips,
a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss.
Her kiss was like a storybook of medieval chivalry,
or a poem from ancient history.
She was at home with the body of a man
inside her,
beside her.
And those night she lay in bed crying,
no one could mistake the tears she wept
for a summer shower.
She is gone, my Love.
She was a wanderess,
a wildflower.