Who am I in the wildlands? What am I once the Lion has laid his claws into me for the gentle agony and stripped off these frozen scales, leaving me pink and bloody as a newborn soul?
I fear that once his sharpened love pierces my shell this tepid skin will deflate and bely all my empty.
But I hope that instead he'll loose a wild woman. One who is not afraid to own her mind, to drip paint messy, to not shrink back and let others build her heart up into iron clad stone.
Her hair and her words will fly, her heart will pulse with the beat of the cosmos, and generations of chains locked by those who should have loved will crumble into power. She will kick her moccasin in its dust and grin and care nothing for deepening wrinkles and sagging skin because she is -- for the first time in all these eons of dark -- free.
Fear can claim no purchase.
She flaps her feathers and dances with the Lion of the joy that is mending all at last.