February 20, 2019

Leave her Wild & she will Always Come Back to You.


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Within every woman there lives a powerful force, filled with good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. She is the Wild Woman, who represents the instinctual nature of women. But she is an endangered species.” ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

She is both magic and medicine.

“This girl,” does not play by the rules of civilized society.

She is unable and unwilling to forfeit her feral nature.

She refuses to talk soft, play nice, or be guilt-stricken for taking up space.

She is unabashedly herself.

Some may say she is a terrifying presence.

Leaving tornados in her wake as she spins circles to a melody only she can hear.

Earthquakes of laughter shake animal sounds from her uncensored mouth.

A playful lion cub who couldn’t be housebroken, but you want her in your bed.

How do you love a wild woman?

Try to understand her.

A modern day Eve, took a bite of the forbidden apple. Instead of hiding her nudity, she threw her unselfconscious head back in maniacal laughter.

A Scarlet Letter branded on her chest, so she rallied her sisters to dance a beat of insanity under an unrepentant moon.

The wild woman is magic. Intuitive. Instinctual. A creative fire that can light up or burn down the universe.

Look into her cat like eyes. See all of her without apologies, excuses, or fear of being exposed.

She craves intimacy.

A lifetime of “should’s and should nots,” are stripped from her face, to reveal moist messiness of her natural skin.

No make up, no bullsh*t, no longer sorry for being “too much.

Let her imagination splatter paint a canvas, where fierce love reigns down ruthless grace, uncompromising forgiveness, unyielding mercy.

Cages of shame, no longer forced control, but instead inspiration, to rewrite the stories of who we say we are.

We are nothing less than magic. 

Special snowflake? How about the whole goddamn snow storm? The seasons belong to our changing nature.

Let her wolf senses hear cries from the underworld.

We whisper stories of capture, heads shaking, “me too,” but we were born with more than two words.

Storm the castle. Lasso the voices who told us our intensity, our passion, our relentless creativity were dangerous.

Wild girls are the sweetest ones, but make no mistake, their fangs will taste blood if you f*ck with their people, especially the savage soul, they call “my own.” 

They are unquestionably kind—until instinctual bones snap.

Ancient forces, unearthing gut wisdom, buried deep beneath conventional mouth sounds.

Let her spiral down, because she is best friends with death.

We hear the echoes.

“You are crazy. You are madness. You are insane.” 

We smile, “Yes, we are.”

Let her run wild and she will always come back to you.

You cannot tame her, so give up your domestication dreams.

She leans into the secret places, where “real” life can be whispered.

She knows the way home, you do not need to save her.

Her smile of freedom will snuggle softly on your chest and dream of worlds “We close our eyes to see.” 

She is peaceful when she sleeps and threatening when she wakes.

Waking up to adventure through her wonder-filled eyes, as she fits her shape into yours.

A puzzle, never meant to be finished because the answer lays in the pieces.

Love her wild and she will tattoo your name like war paint across her tender cheeks.

She is owned by no one, but ruthlessly loyal to her people, you, and insane visions of revolutionary justice.

An indomitable force.


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