A drowning flame in the void of the deepest oceans, she was never meant to bloom. Dead weight upon arrival, She has always been privy to the carefully and scattered ministrations of her reluctant owner. Not that they had much choice, or perhaps they did, they branded her in their name, attempting to sculpt a bairn in their image. And when they did, sighed at the nonsensical piece they had molded in utter disdain and reverted to cut her up and recycle her as a the rag whose sole purpose was to wipe their blemishes. 

And wipe the spills, the mold, the mildew, she did. And as time stretched her limbs, expanded the wisdom in her soul and shed the layers of singed skin, she allowed herself respite from her keepers, placing a world between the branch and its root. And as much as she longed to touch the elusive winds of the sky, and craved the warmth of the merciless sun, the veins clutched at her, like the acrimonious damned spirits in the river styx, reminding her that she has no breath; never would’ve she been allowed to simmer in the sweetness of life without the roots weighing her down. 

And reality, duty, and death sobered her up. While her heart beats erratically, changing rhythms, alternating tempos, she is told to follow the monotonous beatings of her sire’s song. So, she expanded in small almost unnoticeable ways. She laughed a little harder, spoke a little louder, ate a little heartier and chose her paths a little more decisively all in an effort to allow small bursts of her fiery spirit out. 

While there are those in the tree that ask her to be a little quieter, to be smaller, skinnier, softer like the insides of a rose on a mildewed morning, she fights back quietly, never quite taming her lioness’ mane.

And when she occasionally does, she’s alone. Baptizing her body from the scum, the lashes, imprisoned in a cage of her own making. With every tooth that brushes her freed curls, she recounts slighting sightings that broke her spirit and her back. And with every brush comes the roaring, hissing and purring of a woman licking her wounds. Washing the soot, the blood, the dust, the mud and muck from a war torn heart. And once the roaring stops, the wind sows beads of ice in her hair, places its biting hand on the small of her back, on her navel, her nose, reminding her that her story is yet to begin. 

Lioness