September 9, 2018

Wild Girls like us Will Not be Tamed. {Poem}

Warning: naughty language ahead!


From an early age, the world taught me to bottle up my female sexuality because it was dangerous.

It had the power to attract teenage boys and grown men alike.

It was my responsibility to contain, so that I could remain safe.

I was programmed to always smile (but also to not be too friendly), say please, and contort my body to attract a man. I was told to not be aggressive, that fighting is unladylike, and that I was bad at math and too emotional.

As a “good girl,” I did what I was told. Not only did I repress my sexuality, but also my voice, my freedom, ferocious kindness, and raging tenderness.

Historically, the archetypal feminine has been considered dangerous—a serious threat to patriarchy. Women who expressed themselves were burned, branded, shamed, silenced, and ridiculed.

But within any liberation narrative, when a group of people has been held down long enough, there will eventually come a season of resurrection.

I believe the season is now.


Wild girls like us
will not be tamed.

They tell us to shut up,
stop talking about our feelings.
They don’t matter
in this grown-up conversation.

They say we are chaos,
destroyers of order.
Shakti dancing on your third eye,
spinning you around in circles,
left dizzy from seduction.
Adorned by a necklace of skulls,
erasing everything you knew to be true.

You drank our love and said it was poison.
An addiction.
Out of control.

You don’t know where we came from,
the wildest ones,
who refuse to be tamed.

Your bones tremble with ecstasy,
begging on knees to forget us,
questioning the very nature of existence.

We broke all the rules,
and you broke our hearts

We are relentless,
daughters of rebel warriors.

We give birth,
cradle you in the arms of death,
cackling at the moon with savage eyes.

We thrive in the liminal spaces.
Hurricane winds annihilating antiquated order.

You can’t control us,
and so your marrow shivers with regret.

They tell us we are bad.
Girls like us are perilous—
we love too intensely.

We protect with an ancient ferocity.
When danger threatens,
we claw their eyes out,
sinking bloody teeth into flesh.

We are not your enemy.
We came to save, when you were supposed to save us,
and maybe that’s why the world can’t understand girls like us,
we turn stories upside down.

Breathing compassion through dragon nostrils,
like hell fire,
shooting through the veins of a starving nation.

We fight with trickster wit,
and fists if we have to,
but lead with the sweet melody of tender, open hearts.

We rock the world on our bosom,
until everyone has a home.

We see in circles,
breathing acceptance into rigid spaces of right and
unafraid to bang our heads against
armored walls,
persistent rams,
in aggressive pursuit of healing.

We know what a headache feels like—
heartaches, too.

And even still, we wake up in the morning to feed the children.

A formidable tribe of messengers,
we band together,
spreading the gospel
of cutthroat intimacy,
sharper than any sword,
wiser then all belief systems.

We measure power in mystery,
divergent theory,
we look into your eyes and see your soul,
deeply connected.

We do not stand in prosecution, but in tears,
aching for
the vulnerable,
the sick,
the hungry ones,
the lonely,
those who think they are never are enough,
drowning in shameful secrets.

The ones we know too well beneath our very own skin.

We are
The Maiden,
The Mother,
The Enchantress,
The Crone,
The Queen,
The Warrior.

Cycles of blood clearing our vision
to see through bullshit.

Holding your deepest pain
and wrapping our arms around it.

We weep bitterly,
gnash our teeth,
shake fists to the great unknown.

They say, “Stay quiet silly girls,”
and we say,
“Fuck you.”
With a smile, of course.

And when the anger subsides,
the weapon of love annihilates
all those in range.
Unleashing a raging flood,
brave enough to sink Noah’s ark
and reimagine
a new creation story,
no longer two by two,
because we need all voices.

We do not wish to destroy order,
but breathe a pulse back into you,
reimagining patterns of freedom,
an always evolving kaleidoscope.

We hold hands with fear
and kiss shame on the cheek.

Cages have become too boring
for our feral nature.
We demand liberation,
starting with ourselves,
and call upon courage to
dive down,
spiraling into the depths of Hades,
hanging our carcasses on a meathook.

In the silence,
some may celebrate
that wicked witches are dead,
banned to the underworld.
But little did they know,
from the ashes we rise together,
more determined, clear, and inspired,

Indomitable forces.

They couldn’t burn us,
so they took our words and shoved us in the dark.
But with an intuitive wink we giggle,
weaving back together visions of light,
because they were never meant to be separate.

We are sensual.

Our eternal hands raised up in wonder.
We bask and twirl under an endless blanket of stars.

The Sirens will always call.
Because we were born to rise.

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