Her Spirit Runs Wild. {poetry}
{source}
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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Monica 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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