“You musn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they're strong

enough to run into the woods.”-Breakfast at Tiffany’s

I grew up in the woods. I spent my summer days clearing brush, building lean-tos, and swatting mosquitos against blackberry-stained skin. I spent weeks patiently scratching symbols into dirt, detailing my days as a backyard Robinson Crusoe in my own alphabet. One morning the family cat limped home, covered in slashes. The vet stitched her up, told us it was something big. Bear maybe, or wolf. I still ran toward the woods.

In the fall my father took me hunting. Drunk on Thanksgiving turkey, we marched out into the cold every morning before daybreak. I watched the sun slide across the sky, waiting for a buck, waiting for some type of prey to cross my path. Every night at dusk I walked back to the cabin empty handed, unpacked my stiff limbs from their brilliant orange layers. We repeated this dance for years, step by step; I never fired a shot.

Then I found a forest boyfriend. He had acres of trees, miles of quiet. We walked his land in deer season, rifles thudding against our thighs. He told me they sometimes saw coyotes. They were always in season, don’t hesitate to shoot. 

I learned my way around the oven. Blueberry boybait, and brownies from scratch. When I baked for him, I poured myself into the batter. I watched live action fairytales on TV and baked, pacing away the dark winter days in cups and tablespoon minutes; red riding hood’s cape flashing on the screen.

This giving of myself was perilous. Not because they took too much, but because I always wanted more. It was a tap I couldn’t shut off. I flooded, swirled into another boy. And then another. And then I was alone. I was a name whispered in warning.
Of course, there’s nothing more dangerous than a woman who wants. 

Sitting pretty no longer drew the wolves, so I became one. I set snares in every class. He walked right into me, and I swallowed him whole. Always pushing, wanting more. The night I skewered myself with him, he was meek, afraid, uncertain if I was a lamb in disguise. I have never flocked to the bathroom in droves with other women. I have never been a fan of fleece. And once I started taking, I never stopped.

I want. I take. I beg forgiveness. The same hands that run fingernails down spines come up empty when questioned for motive. “Because I wanted to,” is never answer enough for anyone asking. I temper the wild with intelligence. I dress it up, but there is always a wisp of woodland air that escapes. My hair always slips its shackles; the makeup always ends up smeared on my fists. I am most myself when I’m disheveled, hair knotted, and wanting. My eye is always on the gate, on the forest in the distance. My lungs aching to run.