The wild

The wildness presses itself against every pore on my body. The inside, desperate to extrude itself.

To introduce itself to the world.
To be known, felt, seen.
To thrash about in the foreign openness.

Learning to breath.
Learning to walk.
Learning to live.

Tired of being taken out and stuffed back in over and over. The wild, in seeking freedom, is taking over.

It manipulates my very sight and breath, taste and hearing, letting me feel the world anew in every waking hour.

How have I lived for so long without ever truly quenching my thirst, sating my hunger, hearing the ever present truth, or touching…

Really touching?
Being touched?
Feeling what it is to be touched?

Obsessed with the attention, never paid properly, I’m impatient for the sensation of being the object of desire.
The wildness knows.

And as it threatens complete devastation in order to be free,

I no longer fear the uncertainty of that freedom. But I clutch at what I know, overwhelmed with the chaos of emotion roiling within me.

I cling to the present, ignoring the numbness of the past, and hiding from the knowledge that the wild within me is installing directly into my spirit.

I hide from him, because it’s habit.
I hide from them, because it’s natural.
I hide from you, because. . .

The wild awoke beneath your stare, the beast became within this creation I built for you, the inside turned outside purely because of your presence.

And as I cling to the covers, hiding from the dark and begging the light to return, like the scared little girl I’ve always been, I simply do not know how to stop.

Instinctually, I hide.

From my wild.

But still, I call to the beast within…

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