You bet I'm wild.

for the singular act of setting myself free.

This week I decided to jump on the trend and open my Instagram stories up for anonymous questions (go ahead, ask me anything).

I’ve gotten questions about coming out, about non-monogamy, about my dream home, and my style as well as some lovely queries about my process and healing (I’m still in the process of answering them all).

And then I got one submission that wasn’t a question at all

Now, of course, I have zero idea what this human was referring to with that statement, but I immediately knew I was going to have something to say.

Welcome to my response.

---

Yeah, you bet I’m wild.

Wild for knowing I own this life. 
For rejecting the options handed to me at birth.
For choosing a brand new narrative that was mine alone.
For being daring enough to write it down for all to see.

I am wild for shedding my skin at will when it gets too tight to contain the whole of me. 
For serpentine twisting myself around the tree of life, biting the apple & standing naked & unashamed.
For embracing my holy desire in the garden of my own Eden.
For refusing to feel guilty about receiving the kind of pleasure we were born to know.

I am wild for the ways I no longer show up for my own vilification.
For the ways I’ve stopped putting myself on trial for my fumbling humanity. 
For how I insist on my right to claim my body as the birthplace of art, my sexuality as the root of creation.
For knowing my want is the key to unlocking the whole damn thing.

I am wild for unraveling religion, naming myself god & goddess & all that lives between. 
For casting myself out of the temple.
For taking the language of church & invoking spells so it does my bidding.
For calling your attention to my wickedness & naming it good. 

I am wild for blasting open closet doors & letting the truth spill.
For collecting words into poems that sound like freedom. 
For burning down to ashes. 
For rising again. 

I am wild for my submission.
For my power. 
For the way I show up for my own animal undoing. 
For the mess & the raw & how I won’t tidy it up to make you comfortable.

I am wild for what lives under the rainbow, for the hunger of my insatiable flesh.
Wild for the lack of apology that lives on my tongue.
Wild for the salt born of my skin & the crucible between my thighs.
Wild for the muse, for the portal of my own creation, for the whiskey burn & honey sweet of seduction.

I am wild for having a story. 

For knowing it is mine to tell.
For insisting on my outside voice.
For refusing to succumb to the pressure to pretty it up, make it more palatable for your mouth to hold.
For standing inside the truth of my own living & trusting you to do what you will with it. 

I am wild for owning myself. 
For naming my terms. 
For building a life of my own creation. 

Wild for the singular act of setting myself free.

Why are you wild?