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March 20, 2020

The Pyromancer’s Friend

Me: My heart is broken. I’ve been flayed open. I’ve given away my power.

Friend: I don’t think most men can handle you.

Me: Lovely.

Friend: So either tone it down and create a persona, or keep trying to find someone as depraved and strange as you are.

Me: Personas are fake. I refuse to bend and bow to what is inauthentic. If I am meant to be alone at that cost, then so be it. sigh I don’t suppose my kind is meant to keep lovers for an entire lifetime, but a girl can dream.

Friend: I think you should just work on yourself. Things come together that way.

Me: That’s what I was doing- that’s what I’m ALWAYS doing, yet the Universe orchestrated our collision. The brokenness I’m feeling is part of something greater and more expansive. This pain is shifting my consciousness.

My friend sometimes humors me and reads some of my darker poetry. He peers into the obscure shadows of my mind, although he does not completely immerse himself into them. In my opinion, his methodology doesn’t exactly promote objectivity. Over the years, he’s subtlety poked and jabbed at my “depravity” and “wild ways”. He should know by now that generic responses and preservative-laden advice won’t soothe my woes, for I am a

Pyromancer

fanning flames

drawing forth power

blend of moon and firelight

flickering upon my naked body

hips swaying

body undulating

rhythm of my ancestors

clad in starlight

drum beats

whispering incantations

into my soul

blood drawn circle

Inner wailing escaping

gutteral gasps and hisses

This magic is mine alone-

for my intention is less than pure.

No, my dear Friend, the quiet, rule-abiding mother will not be my constant mask, nor shall I stay the virginal maiden, or wizened crone. I am all of these embodiments, and not one supersedes another.

I dance wildly under the fertile moon, nurture and pour out care, yet stoically gaze upon what does not serve me with decisive, cutting judgment. I am a queen, and I am a servant. I am a soft lover, yet the strongest of warriors. My receptive passions know no bounds, and I look fearlessly into adversity.

No, FRIEND, I’ll never fit into your small box to be tempered, shelved, and neatly organized. I prefer to roam freely in openness, breathing in all there is to discover and learn. I’ll never hold my breath in an attempt for your or anyone else’s approval.

I’m not your self-righteous, alchemical experiment to be meddled with and made into your version of holy. You can claim to understand my partial makeup on a micro level, but you’ll never feel at peace with who and what I am. For I am Whole.

Perhaps it is you who withers to self-contain and hide.

I’ll hold space and allow you to be. Whatever fractional part of you attempting to reduce and define me, is simply just that: a part of you that’s been left to grow and assume royalty over your subjective reality.

I’ll breathe out my version of a prayer for your peace under this Equinox moon.

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