The Wordmiss

I am a she-beast. I am a saint. My skin is radiant with sun and burns. I am postmodern. I am wild woman. I am the chaos of my own making. I am an old soul. I am youth. I am master of my fate, and slave to my own whimsy. I am tender, as I am heartless. There is nothing in me that is not contradictory.

I am in search of the deathless. I am restless, my goal is nowhere. I am seduced to bliss and to pain, this raw feeling of being. I stand on the spine of a mountain, facing this wilderness. I am a hermit here, I am a libertine there. I am fixated by love and rage and a deep understanding.

My mouth is vile. But my eyes are innocent and pure. I am a lotus in a pond of mud. I am filth, but the sacred is the compass of my tongue. I have surrendered. I am revived. I am here. I am everywhere. Nothing is inseparable to me. Everything is carnal, as it is divine.

All has dropped, arisen, and royally remade. I am atom. I have exploded. My body is a vase of want, without lips. I am inner fire. I have no name. I am a museum of secrets, both holy and profane. I am a vault of grotesque and beauty. I am watched by the sun. I am earthbound, I am unearthed.

Who am I? I am a visionary. I am a lover. I am an explorer of intimate spaces. I am a gypsy. I am a dreamer. I am a beholder of life’s secret pages. Above all, I am an artist, and words are the grit of my expression. They are the stuff of my inkmade soul. They are my sole obsession.

// Feb 2020

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