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I’m not a demon for running
with the wolves every full moon.
I’m not a wicked witch
for casting a spell on the man
who loves me more than I do.
I’m like a wild animal
but only by choice.
I gather what I can find
most harvest days.
American stories
made to sing out
in the open but it doesn’t
end on a light note
like every animated fairytale.
Punctured and bruised
by stupid games.
It wasn’t played by children.
They were played by adults
behaving like children.
I’m not a girl to gossip
about who’s sleeping with who
because I’ve been on the receiving
end of being called a wild spinster.
Wild things can get what they wanted
but it doesn’t mean it’s fixed.
People get burned alive
once they get compared
to someone they know
nothing about.
For me, I wanted
to be like the graceful
women of the past.
They were wild and exotic
to wide eyed girls
who wanted to be seen.
I’ve known wilder things
than people using metaphors
at me thinking that I would
get what they mean by it.
But to hell to the wild girl,
she got what she deserved.
Lonely and wild spinster.
That’s all that she is, right?
Wrong. I’m more than that.
I’m a poet with a degree
in a circus full of lion tamers.
Women being the lion.
They end up getting hurt
and called out for a crime
they didn’t commit.
American folklore about the past.
It made me think twice
about writing things I’ve been through.
Cautious without an armor.
I’m not made to have new beginnings
once I’ve been hit in the heart
with the last silver bullet.
I know I’m not a woman
of the past but why do I keep
on wanting a life like theirs?
I did have wild times
and wild predictions
of where I’ll end up.
But the reality is,
I’ll only end up hurting
the one who loves me.
I’m not the innocent girl
people think I am.
I’ve held the burden
of knowing he’ll stay.
To think about it,
I should be happy
knowing that what I have
in life is there for a reason.
I left poverty and hopelessness
in my place of birth.
I wasn’t the first world girl
who writes poetry endlessly.
I was the girl who got her start
by accident because he couldn’t
keep it quiet.
That’s what’s wild about him.
He’s not afraid to scream
out a name endlessly.
I’m wild enough to love him.