She is made of ravens and wolves.
She moves like midnight. Stumbling in her dark,
I feel the hot breath of mortality against my cheek.
I chained her struggle beneath my skin
until I learned that she made me
—not prey
—not pray.
Her claw and bite marks form
a dream catcher of scars within my mind.
Our peace is uneasy.
I’ve unleashed her in increments
still terrified of her hungers.
She fucks like a beautiful nightmare.
In battle, she leaves no head unturned,
no taboo unmolested,
no limb unreckoned, the last digit tallied
in her ledger of destruction.
She is fierce in her love,
in her hate, in her
sense of justice that is blind and armed.
She records every slight to our person.
She is the horror of beauty.
Deny her, embrace her;
like any other creature,
she longs to be loved.
©2017. I.O. Kirkwood. All Rights Reserved.
I.O. Kirkwood 