Drink me in, while you can. Before I realise I’m trapped in a glass and my oppositional defiance to rules flares up.
Get wine-drunk on me baby, because you know how intoxicating a wild one can be and, girl, you better drink it down before the angels take their share.
Because I’m the kinda woman who could be a panther: equals parts pounce and protect. Equal parts scream and serenade. Equal parts honey and horror.
I’m the kinda woman who will circle like a thunderstorm, running rings like an Energizer bunny, teaching you how to dream.
I’ll breathe fire into frozen limbs, I’ll teach you every colour of the wind I know and all the notes that go along with them. I’ll let you in on all my sorcerer plans and cast a lumos spell on how to take joy in cackling; I’ll quote the OC to you for days on end, remembering all the times I thought I was in my own Truman show.
But baby, I’ll be honest with you. I’ll get bored.
I’ll leave your messages on read, almost able to taste your hunger of the tapping of my fingertips on the keyboard.
I’ll swipe on someone else. The pattern may repeat, but most likely I’ll be dancing around the living room to petty Taylor Swift songs about revenge and leaving before you get left.
Because I’ve made those mistakes before. Gotten too close to flames, or dunked by unseen waves, and salt burns when you’re choking.
So I decided to eat the dove’s wing for breakfast. Decided to swallow crocodile tears and become the wild fire instead. I decided to become the rain, and the sea, and the sturdy oak tree and the bending palm.
Take one last sip, savour it, get your fill. I’m about to backflip off the pirate’s plank into the unknown-infested waters of what’s next, but if you say something cheeky, I might entertain another moment or two of balancing on the in-between.
See, it’s just bigger than us. And if we’re not creating the universe every day, what is the point?