the truth is, i want to be wild. i want sand between my toes and paint-covered fingertips running over berry-stained lips. i want battle wounds that cry love and terror and weakness and all things beautiful. and i want stardust and a tenderness that looks like the softness of the moon, full in its iridescence and sweet in its shimmery night-lit lullaby. i want freedom. i want peace. but most of all, i want you. 
 

There are hollows
in my cheeks
made from
the in-sucking,
the breath-holding
required
of all women
in my industry. 
This is where I exhale.

i am trying not to force things, 
to let them just unfold. 
but it’s tricky
because there is a sense
of rushing
that pulsates through my veins, 
and a restlessness that
has always hummed its way
through the centre of my heart. 
but i am trying not to force things, 
because it’s better for the breath
that catches in the back of my throat
when i push.
because it’s better for the skin
that twists around my bones
when i wrap myself in layers of rigidity
cultivated by way of letting the opinions of others
carve hollows into the depths of my belly, my chest. 
because these eyelids have grown heavy
and there’s an unyielding whisper in my ear that says, 
rest. rest. rest.