There were tigers in the concrete jungle, monsters grinning, feigns dripping with the blood of the sacred. They prowled the streets, starved for the taste of dreamers, thirsty for the veins of believers, as they hunted individuality, pooled their victims in conformity, weaved the ends of eternity into a thousand webs of misconception. But she was no fly, nowhere near ready to die the death of a misinformed slave. She spread her wings, chased her dreams across the wind, tasted freedom on her lips, and no longer sipped but gulped, gulped, gulped the fresh air in desperation, in love. The fly became a bee, wild with fiery sting, unbreakable and redeemed.
"You left before I woke and now the room feels cold. Do I dare move from these crumpled sheets, this mattress that slumbers in the musk of you? In the twilight hours, you caught my breath between your teeth as I held your bleeding soul between my palms. Though I’d given you everything, I wanted to give you more. I longed to wrap your hollowed skeleton in my skin, and heave the fiery essence of you into my cold veins. Giving you my body was the least of it. The whole time, you held me like a glass vase, afraid to shatter my fragile walls. I begged for you to dive right in, and you danced around the surface, unsure of yourself, unsure of me. It’s okay though. I’m unsure of me, too. Unsure of the untamed scars etched into my being. Unsure of the starved, bone-thin frame this soul calls a home. Unsure of the wildfire burning, consuming, licking the backs of my pupils. I can feel it making its home there, in the back of my brain. An unquenchable curiosity, a never-ending ache. I leave the bodies of lovers piled in the wake of trying to destroy it. Perhaps you will be one too. Perhaps you will save me. Maybe I’ll save you. Who is to know? But as we wait to find out, let me dip my hands into the sloppy, wet mess of your soul as we morph into a single being on this wild planet we call home."
My solitude feels welcome after nights spent caving to demons, most past, some there to linger and never die. One day, I will learn to live around them. I will grow an orchard around my wounds and plant roses in the scarred land. I will forgive those who dug into this earth with scythes and greedy hand. I shall watch green overcome ruin. But I will not forget.
I once despised the color pink, trampled anything labeled 'girly' with unforgiving black until my feminine side was washed in darkness. The day my body began to shift and the innocence of childhood melted away, I became uncomfortably aware of the male gaze piercing the backs of my legs, sweeping my broadening chest, gnawing on my widening hips like starved dogs. So I clipped my hair to the scalp and changed my appearance to look more like them and less like me. On that day, my wings were clipped too. I left them on the side of the road, torn and bloody, oozing with the desire to be accepted for all of their soft, gentle beauty, all their delicacy, all their wild strength. But they were pink, and where the world spotted pink, the world spotted weakness. I ran from pink and dove into black. The parts of me they told were too boyish, too wild, not pretty enough, not good enough, grew fangs and talons and attacked anyone who came just a little too close. The gossamer of my existence morphed into glass spears and drilled holes in every road I tread. The violence and aggression I despised, I became. I grew battered walls to protect myself from battered masculinity. I threw away the woman in me and got lost inside a monster no human soul was ever meant to see—the illusion of power. The loneliness of invulnerability. The lioness inside my soul grew a protective mane and disguised herself as a ferocious lion. And then, the stars intervened.