I used to believe that I was a wild woman.
I was mad and made of storm clouds,
lost in a love affair with languishing,
fatalistic as I faced the feminine urge to unravel.
I have travelled to places you’d never believe,
coconut lip gloss covers a lost girl’s kiss,
so unattainable, so unavailable,
locked in a tower, behind a lake of the finest fire.
I was a slave to the idea of suffering,
so set on struggling for however long life decided to be entertained by my anguish,
that I forgot that I could forgive myself,
forgoing the self loathing, just learning to live with myself.
It’s so easy to say “I’m going to be kind to myself”,
but I used up all the goodness inside of me,
giving it to everyone around me that I’m not sure there’s anything else left for little old me,
so, I remain a wild woman,
mad and made of storm clouds,
a little more self aware,
a little less scared of what hides under the idea of what I am,
and that’s fine, for now.