I wrote this a while back on elephant journal, and included it in this months newsletter, because it has been calling to me for sensual May days. Ironically, a whole pile of peeps were offended by it and unsubscribed, which I found very revelatory, haha! We’re still so afraid of our inner creative, sexual beingness.
So in honor of growing deeper into our desire, publishing here. Enjoy, Wildlings.
p.s. This was a sonnet to myself, a day when I was feeling the need for freedom and yet, a longing for being seen in my sexuality. Perhaps you will resonate with this as well.
She Has Always Belonged to Herself, But You Can Give Her This…
All those times she rested in your arms and breathed so softly that your heart almost broke—you thought she was yours, but she was a whisper on the evening wind, a wicked minstrel disguised as something tame.
You hold onto her with arms that thrill her and words that keep her drowning in your love, but she will always be the sonnet not quite finished—the wave not quite reaching the shore.
You feed her pomegranates and kisses spiked with brandy, thinking she is forever captured, but she leaves you in the mornings—and with a pang of sadness, you wonder if maybe this time she won’t return.
She cannot be captured with promises or rings—and not with declarations made on bended knee, because although she loves you, she is a mystery unto herself.
She is chocolate wrapped in sin, the flight of doves on a sunny day; she is the quiet murmur of a rocky stream.
She is not a simple puzzle. She is centuries of love and undiscovered languages, slipping into your awareness when she allows—wisdom personified, a river spilling into the mouth of the sea.
You can honor her by giving her space to unfold each day—to find her equilibrium and the sound of her voice.
You can share in her joy, in the way she greets the dawn; you can experience her but never own her soul.
You can gift her with your love, and bathe her in your lust, but leave her room to absorb it at her own pace.
You can watch as she unfurls her wings and takes flight, while you admire her mind. You can bask in her brilliance, but you cannot hold her down. She is a phoenix; she is a cascade of raindrops upon a tin roof.
Perhaps it’s not fair that she’s the wish you cannot make—but would you really want her if she was a caged bird? Would you clip her feathers, knowing that she needs to find her own way, dip her toes in every galaxy and swim in the unknown?
For you are also her tumbling stone, the reason she wakes up every day. You are also the wonderment and the firmament, the delight of her curiosity.
You are best when you breathe the air of eagles, when you find your own path and when you remain an unanswered question.
Take in her breath when she undulates her hips, hold her hand and bite her neck; whisper wickedness in her ear, but give her time to find her bliss.
Sear your mouth onto her breast, and draw her secrets upon your fingertips—give in to her darkest erotic tastes, but save her dew on your hungry lips, like sacred, unspun silk.
She is your mistress and your confidant, your teacher and your student, your illusive midnight dream.
You have always thought that she was yours, because she feeds on your love, always licking her plate clean—and because she cries when you make her come. But don’t take her sweet surrender as a warrior would take a slave. She will never belong to anyone. She belongs only to herself.
She is tender, but her strength is in her knowing that you can never make her whole. She must do that for herself. She must be her only savior.
You can be the one who loves her while she spins her own cocoon—always transforming, always the light that draws you in.
You can be as the tropical sunset that settles upon her open heart. You can be the one who makes her sing.