poetry

Her Spirit Runs Wild. {poetry}

 

She is the once upon a time and the too good to be true

She does not wait for Prince Charming to save her so that she can play house in castles made of cards

She does not hold her breath for someone to love her or crawl beneath her sheets

For someone to move inside her so she can feel whole

She is already filled with a relentless, primal spirit

She exhales unapologetically and with purpose — sinking her teeth into all that she wants for

 

There is no time to wish upon shooting stars

For he loves me, he loves me not

She plucks each and every petal with no worry of the thorns

She would rather bleed and lick her paw than cower from danger

Her spirit, once shackled, now runs wild

She is feral and untamed

A precocious girl with bright eyes and a passion for living gave way to a fearless woman who cannot be caged

The temptress with dirt under her nails and salt on her lips

 

She is of a different breed — both intimidating and inviting

A huntress who plays with her prey before the slaughter

Tearing away the flesh with her teeth

Fear has withered with the frost and she has blossomed into a venomous creature that is dangerous to the touch

A soul with unshakable roots

Her feet are dirty from kicking off her glass slippers and dancing barefoot with her eyes closed

She is the last burning ember that smolders in the rain

Setting aflame all that she touches

Until there is nothing left but ash and bone

She walks down dirt paths instead of wedding aisles

And she walks alone

Never looking behind at what once was — at what could have been

 

Love lies in the wake of her touch and fades just as quickly as it came

Her fingers painting wounds that do not heal with time

She is coveted not kept

A siren with such grace that even death drowns to greet her

As if she were the last of her kind — a dying breed of woman that bows before no one

A deity worshipped by the devout and the disillusioned

A beacon for the willfully lost

Her iron courage is an anchor for the wavering

For those oscillating between daring and discontent

She is the port sought in the storm — a refuge for the weary of heart

Waves crash against her filling her lungs with peril as she swims against the tide

Gasping for air in defiance and drowning in her triumph

She is a warrior charging into battle with no shield

But wielding her backbone as a sword

 

There lies a tenderness in the space between

Between her callousness and her compassion

Between her freedom and her restraint

A space where she can shed her skin and answer to no one

Others stare with admiration at how freely she moves with presence

And leaves without a trace

At how she is watched with reverence as she goes.

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MonicaTorresMonica Torres is a recovering cynic and world traveler, scouring the earth for meaning, purpose, and fine wines. You could contact her via her website, Facebook or Instagram.

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