The Alien, The Cowboy and The Witch by grace mcgrade

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Chapter 1


Adam possessed all the qualities Elle detested, and everytime they reconvened, she felt like he would ruin her life. Perhaps that's why she loved him. It had been a while since anything had the power to throw her off course, and after coming back from a year long stay in a Spiritual retreat center, she felt like it might be worth the danger. She had always had a secret affinity for chaos.

He was both arrogant and insecure, with an insatiable appetite for cocaine and fame. He ferociously climbed the hollywood social ladder despite frequently being shut out for his bursts of aggression and reckless disregard for others. He dressed in brown and yellow vintage, bleached blonde hair and smelled like patchouli and chemicals. His lifestyle never seemed to compromise his aesthetic, he was tastefully chaotic. He lived nocturnally, and resided in the basement of a house in beachwood. The basement resembled a cave and had only two windows at either side of a long hallway, dusted with take out boxes, photographs he had taken, piles of clothes, empty cigarette boxes, cowboy hats, vegas paraphernalia, and lost items from the multitude of women he slept with.
It was like a deranged museum of hedonism.

He was austere and cold at his worst, and at his best, highly intuitive and insightful with an inability to sit still. He was ferociously talented, in every avenue he put his energy into. It gave him an inner indecisiveness. He had a softness about him that was seldom visible, due to his consistent running toward or away from things. Elle never knew if this was because of the cocaine or a deep rooted inner restlessness. He resembled a character from one of her stories, and because she saw everything as a story, she would frequently reconvene their connection at the expense of both parties.

Whenever they got together, Elle swore she felt her body shake and vibrate with electricity, intensity, and a desire to almost fade into the shadowy folds he wore with him. She was never entirely sure if he felt the same, as he was aloof and secretive, and  their conversations were either something close to nonsense poems or arguments.

Elle was a model turned professional witch, who didn’t live in reality. She operated at a slightly inhuman frequency, refused to work a regular job, drive a car or read the news or weather, as she felt it threatened her belief that life was inherently paranormal and ebbed and flowed out of her emotions.  She believed in fairies and magic and aliens, and wouldn't hesitate to let you know within the first ten minutes of meeting her. She carried an intense personal charm and magnetism that provoked strong reactions from everyone she met, either resulting in hatred or love. She was only satisfied by experiences that seemed to swallow and alchemize her, and was singularly bold and honest with an active mind. She liked to collect admirers and also secrets, and did so with such a baffling agility, that it must have been magic. Every day flowers would arrive on her doorstep, and she was always yearning to fall into other worlds. She lived in a bubble of splendor and miracles, maintained by rituals and petitions to the gods and nature spirits. She had a free, mad and wild heart. However, she possessed the capacity for apocalyptic vengeance and in her dualistic nature, she was a furious forest fire, and a spectacle few could manage. Adam was the only person whom had ever bore witness to the spectrum of rage and destruction that lived inside of her.

She felt the most erotic and provocative in solitude, when she was able to roll around and behave animalistically. She preferred to be accompanied by her pretendings than people. Dressing up in gowns and down in bustiers, in clouds of her favorite scents, singing her favorite songs, with the gods as her sole audience. She liked to sip Moscow mules at the chateau marmont and pretend they were good for her, because they had ginger in them and came in copper cups. She was in constant inner turmoil around her desire to be delightfully inebriated, stylish, and deeply spiritual. On New Moons she held sacraments and ceremonies and on full moons she would go out dancing.

Their affair had begun in the desert, when Adam had just been an unreliable, irritating floating friend at the time. Elle was there during Coachella weekend to give psychic readings, and staying with some friends in a nearby house. Adam broke both of his arms trying to impress a photographer while riding a moped. He called her from the hospital and asked if he could stay.

Elle was recovering from a heartbreak, after projecting paramount depth and meaning onto a meaningless fling, which is what she did very often and very poetically. She experiencing her first MDMA high at the time, and would later decide that this was why she always associated him with the feeling of euphoria and tenderness that came from the drug. She invited him in, in his boots and comically large arm casts, and laid him gently on the bed before stroking his hair and deciding that it was up to her to nurse him back to health. In the daze of the midnight heat and drug delirium, they shared kisses under the stars and feel asleep enveloped in each other, bandages and all.

For the next two weeks Elle nurtured and nursed him in her best friends artist apartment while he was away.There, they lived with a dove and giant galactic paintings, making the whole scenario comedically surreal. Elle ignored all responsibilities and began accompanying him to doctors appointments, washing his hair, laughing and lying by his side as they watched ungodly amounts of Netflix. She was growing frighteningly comfortable only existing for someone else. They both refused to allow the injury to prevent them from doing cocaine and frequenting nightclubs, theme parks and even caves. She blamed her excess on his influence, but refused to slow down in case she couldn’t match his haphazardous speed. They slept through half of each day in betrayal of the Sun, each party quietly aware of the unsustainability of their present lifestyle.


Together, they would go out til dawn, frequenting old hotels and clubs in Silverlake.  Where Elle was impervious to the opinions of others, Adam had been raised on transactional relationships, only able to gauge his worth based on how entertaining and valuable he felt in the eyes of people he saw as more important.
They followed a malicious routine at parties, both disappearing and reappearing after making out with other people, perhaps to collect bits of each other that they felt were missing. Elle privately thought she might not be made for monogomy, requiring more admiration and attention than any one person held within them- but if anyone suggested to behave the same way with her, she would unleash a wrath more calculated and furious than a wildfire.
Adam attracted women with paranormal ease, and had a gross kind of chameleon charm, that he used to capture the attention of anyone in the vicinity. When they were apart they would criticize each other, hoping that through their respective, grueling character defamation, no one else would want the other.
They were as possessive as they were skilled at nonchalantly dancing away from the truth, the truth that spoke so clearly to them in each others bodies. They had been tied together by quantum string, in away Elle, in hindsight would define as deeply karmic.


The first notable red flag, (although there were many, that Elle delicately collected and fashioned into etheric scarves) arrived one morning when Adam received a phone call from his Dad. His Dad was informing him that his step mother, a long term cancer patient, had a week to live. Elle sat and cried with him, tracing the tattoos on his chest, until he sprung up and headed into the shower, where she heard him smashing the walls and screaming, each blow sounding out into the chambers of her heart.  The same day Elle received news that an old ex boyfriend had passed away from a drug overdose.

They were both impulsive creatures, with a tendency towards darkness. They were equally under equipped to deal with the trials and tribulations of death in away that served them, so they huddled and hurdled into a havoc more beautiful and terrible than anything they had ever seen.

Lessons From Venus Retrograde by grace mcgrade


Every living thing that has ever been born, was born in a distinct location in time/space. No one will ever occupy that time or space again. It is a cosmic signature.

We are all walking around with a distinct and unique make up, that was translated and mapped out by our astrological influences the moment we were born. The stars we were born under do not define us, but the mirror us with erie precision. The stars tell our story. They are the lens through which we perceive reality. Every perception is unique.

We carry these stories internally, everywhere we go, and we trigger and fire one another up with our astrological DNA. I like to think of them as computer settings, with our minds as the projecting screen. You can never change the settings, but you can alter the brightness. Expunge the drama and live in awareness and self ownership.
Venus retrograde has been a whirlwind of synchronicitous love patterning and I adore it. When a planet goes retrograde, it hits our internal systems and pulls us in, asking us to go deeper. Venus, born from the oceans of allure, is the opulent planet of love and relationships. Venus rules materials and attracting what it is you want. Venus tells us how we attract and what we attract. When she is retrograde, she holds back on giving and allows us to examine what has already been given and the pattern .

Venus asks us: What have we already attracted and for what purpose? What is your pattern in relationships? Where does your shadow like to play? What is it you really want? Are your relationships transactional or fulfilling?

The adverse to the loving archetype of Venus, is the addict- the lover who wants to disappear into someone. The lover who wants to merge and dissolve into another, rather than staying sovereign and whole.

Do you love or do you just want to merge?

I perceive astrological transits by observing the nature of the people in my circle. There has been an increase in discussions about soulmates and twinflames (so exhausting to even begin to go into) and hot, heavy affairs with unsavory individuals. Myriads of past lovers and friends crawling up from the darkest holes in the earth. Waves of hypersexual energy and questions in regard to how we earn and spend.  All of my friends have been questioning relationships, looking at how we are unfulfilled sexually or emotionally.

In my life, Venus retrograde helped me recall an internal story.

I am awful at skin deep flings because not one part of me is skin deep. I make a terrible “other woman” because I require far more attention than any one person can offer and I have a habit of telling people the truth. This doesn’t mean people haven’t tried to wearily  condense me into these crimson archetypes, perhaps because I am tempestuous, dark and wild.

I have always found that the most beautiful things are elusive and fluctuating, water, leaves, music, fire, hair and  eyes. Things that can’t be held but just observed.Quivering and shimmering, incapable of being caught. Perhaps that’s why I allowed myself to fall for someone once,! who behaved with untimely, almost comedic evanescence.

He was a nefarious nebula of a boy.

He was hyperactive, with nervous, intense, beckoning eyes that spoke of a restlessness ill suited for this world. He’s eyes seemed to steal the light and hold it with them. He had a gaunt appearance  and a jittery presence, scattered throughout all the clouds. Something about his chaotic nature provoked a tenderness in me I hadn’t anticipated. When ever he left I was tormented by an otherworldly resonance.

A Wolf child. Almost rabid.

I didn’t understand how it was possible to feel so much for one person, a psychic kinship extending beyond my lifetime- and a passion almost unbearable to contain within my own body. There were unfamiliar currents of bliss and euphoria that were ignited by his touch. When I kissed him I saw kaleidoscopes of light fractals and colors no one else knew.

I felt so intensely  that I couldn’t only be feeling my own emotions, and I had to be feeling some of his too. And then he would disappear, and I had to learn from the pain. I learnt to contribute the feeling to a faction of myself I hadn’t explored, rather than something he took away.

Some people are so sacred they feel heavy to be around. It’s always an issue when they are blind to their own divinity, because that means they are blind to yours too. The shape of him and his words and laugh left marks all over me. I learned a holy lesson in not seeking boys and also not waiting for the wind to carry them to me. I am intrinsically connected and I carry the essence of the universe in my hands and sometimes people don’t want to look at that or feel it.

Venus retrograde told me to stop lowering and compromising my vibration and magic for people who cannot meet me at mine.

Everyone in our lives is an extension of ourselves, and we operate in a frequencial nature. Relationships are frequencial agreements. When we engage with another, we co-create reality. If someone isn’t of the mindset that life is inherently miraculous, ebbing and flowing in the direction of their attention, when you are with them- don’t expect miracles.

My favourite people in the world are the ones who see life as their dream: an outward projection of the luminous soul material that resides inside them. They approach reality with a playful sense of wonder and splendor.

If people are draining you, it's your problem and your responsibility to clear it. Go where the love is and do not settle until you get there. Some boys are playgrounds and some are homes.

Los Angeles is a Teenage Girl by grace mcgrade

Los Angeles is a teenage girl.  I am bewildered and intoxicated by her.

Where else in the world do mystics, psychiatrists, psychics, musicians, yogis, actresses and club promoters all come to convene? In a  foreboding desert city with many cities inside of it, with the quietude and vastness of the valley, the magic of the canyons, the quirk of the eastside,  the boxed and refined corners of beverly hills. An endless neon expanse of deciet, fame, love, beauty and chaos. People travel between these lands in bumper to bumper traffic on a spectrum of psychiatric drugs and speeds, driving in metal boxes. It was once  said to be inhabited by angels, where Mayans and natives  convened with spirits of the earth. Now it is a stage set for manifestations where people make dreams appear on giant screens.

It's like if all the most popular girls, in every high school in America decided to move to one place, and compete for attention, acting jobs, juices and parking spaces.

Like a teenage girl, I have mixed feelings about it here. There are so many lost souls, ungrounded and unintegrated. There is a feeling that most people emanate, of always impatiently wanting to be in the best possible place, with the best people, and never actually arriving. An invisible ladder heading to nowhere.

Fame provokes a rare kind of toxicity in people, and I learned that early on. I grew up in an inherited culture of celebrity nepotism. Spending my formative years in a cesspool of ego and attention, unaware that it didn’t belong to us, but was holographically inserted by the hollywood machine. Everyone has to be on guard because there is a transactional nature to most relationships here, and some people will view others as stepping stones on the invisible ladder.

In hindsight, I see that artists and empaths have been infected by a need to be heard and  recognized, because they feel like their personal relationships don’t mirror back to them the intimacy we deserve. That is why they seek fame.

The earth is on fire, and people still feel a compulsion to create an endless stream of entertainment away from reality. It is a beautiful, terrible, coping mechanism. We are being overloaded with stimuli and media, and it is tearing us away from our bodies. It feels surreal to be in the epicenter of it all. Madness. Utter madness.

However, there is an air of unreality here that seems to serve me. I feel like there is a powerful energetic signature over Los Angeles, a dreamy, neptunian frequency that speeds up manifestations and magic with agile accuracy. It feels like layers of dimensions and currents, waiting to be switched on.

I love the dreamers, I love the artists, I love the special, slightly crazy people. I love them and they are all famous in my heart.

I see the innocence in the teenage girl that is Los Angeles, I see that she is a child at heart and just needs to be noticed.  She can wear as much make up as she wants, and dance until her legs give out, but she is still a child. She can be a crazy, emotional, irrational mindfuck. She needs to get off her phone. She is bold and expressive, lit by the fire of spontaneity. I see that she will adorn and glamorize herself to shield her growing pains in a world of an unnerving state of flux that clamors into the deepest chambers of her being. I hope she grows into herself beautifully.



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Spiritual F**k Boys by grace mcgrade

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I have an irrepressible urge to make everything I live intoxicatingly cinematic, deeply sensory and ferociously comedic.

Sometimes this is at my own expense, and I compromise for characters, all wild and no sense, whom will make for an epic story rather than provide safety or consistency.


This is due to my sneaking suspicion that life is a grand illusion, a massive manifestation of something more, something infinite, hugely illusory and funnelled through my own limited experience and personal individuation. I crave experience and am hungry for the ungodly voyeurism of story, of beasts and burlesque and beauty. I believe we are each players, a  compilation of planetary archetypes- and our cosmic makeup will trigger and fire each other up because of what we each represent. The task is to figure out what you symbolise .

In my almost clumsy nonchalance, I seem to casually collect admirers and bore of their flesh and blood..instead seek the creatures from my imagination, which have always had more lasting and defined contours.  I do not underestimate the greatness of a single love, as the people I know are as changing as the tides, ever evolving, always capable of immense depth. If I wish to know you, I want to know every part of you, even the mangled, dusty parts, that don’t get taken out for anyone. Most people are not always brave enough for such feats.


On my quest for depth, I moved to a New Age Mecca, the disneyland of ecovillages, and a virtual magnet for spiritualists, environmentalists and eccentrics alike.  I resolved to leave the long chapter of juvenile debauchery behind, an era of boys who fell from the clouds and switched companions as fast as their fingers could swipe. I was ready for something lasting and whole. Little did I know, around the corner awaited the most dangerous of all the fuckboys, the shiny archetype of the New Age: Spiritual Fuck Boy.

The player with a messiah complex.

He may be of a “higher vibration” than mere mortal women, but he seems to only frequent locations where he is vastly outnumbered by them, particularly retreats, where he can prey on their inner-seeking.

You’ll be able to identify him by his sacred geometry tattoos, jarring and discombobulating color scheme, glassy stare, and the stench of pot that enters the room before he does (he claims these are pheromones). He seems to know a little about everything, and is probably beautiful.

There will usually be some sort of polarity between blatant drug use (“only medicine, man, only what comes from mother gaia”) and shaming anyone in the general vicinity who drinks coffee or takes an advil. He knows a surprising amount of useless information about the benefits of Millet and Kale. He claims fearlessness in the face of adversity but quakes in his recycled footwear when witchcraft or feminine mystique is mentioned.

He says money is evil (so wastes all of yours), monogomy is unevolved (so recklessly engages in a multitude of skin deep flings) and treats you as if you are a mere pit stop on his extensive spiritual journey. An iridescent accessory- makes a statement, but shouldn’t be worn more than once.

He tells you you don’t need to wear make-up, that it’s a turn off, unnatural and deceptive, even after you explain you don’t wear it for him.

These types will paraphrase scriptures and Osho quotes, and use them as pick up lines, will claim to have a wide knowledge of tantra, lacking any sort of physical embodiment, but following where they feel energetically called (which is undoubtedly, everywhere.) He is, of course, hypervigilant when it comes to his own fragile ego, which requires more delicate care and tip-toeing than tending to a garden made out of glass.

You will hear him reference his individual, elevated journey or path- which usually is a straight road to his penis.- until you have exceeded your use. He has absolutely NO understanding of boundaries. He claims to be using his intuitive capacities, but unless they are located in the sacral region, he doesn’t seem to be very perceptive to any sort of feeling.  
His brand of spirituality is “Competitive Spirituality”, and he holds the idea of a higher power/god that is privatized and only available through him. If you try to discuss your own cosmology, it is questioned, criticised or simply shut down.

His guaranteed exit will be announced in the following format:

“I’ve been called to.. (run away from this place,  follow my shamanic calling in Los Angeles, start a permaculture community comprised of ex victoria secret models, begin a quest to grow copious, ungodly amounts of bad marijuana, astral project out of my physical form) and I don’t think this connection serves us anymore. Namaste.”

I want to tether the rope tying me to this story, and leave the days of dancing with the solemn artifice of ‘flings’ in my rear view. It’s getting boring.



Trees are Angels by grace mcgrade

I am canopied and enveloped by trees, in a canyon that wraps and holds you. A fractal of nature in an otherwise barren cityscape. The stolen desert. The sky swims through shadings of indigo, pink and blue around me. I wait for the stars that wink at me and tell me secrets. I am neighbored by brilliantly magenta poinsettia flowers, bamboo and palm trees,  and I am crying. I am crying because when I have a feeling, when I am hurting, or heartbroken, or brimming with fury, I am transmuted and soothed by nature. I can come outside and hand my feelings to the trees, with their outstretched leafy fingers, and soften. And they are unconditionally giving.The trees don’t care if you texted your ex you weren’t supposed to, or how much money you make, they just give and give and give and in private moments they seem to vibrate and sing at such an angelic pitch and pace, you swear you are with god.



Sometimes I will be resting on a tree and I start wishing I could merge with it, wishing I could entwine my body with roots and skin with bark and hair with leaves, wishing I could just be an observer instead of playing part in the dramas and chaos of humans. Wanting to climb into the skin of the sea, to descend past and through all the creatures, right into the heart of the earth. There, I want to expunge the toxins of the population that lives above.

Put down your phone. Reconvene with your own flesh, revisit the trauma that has made a home in your body and expunge it. Expunge it with the earth and with the fire of all the women who love too much.


Heart Cave by grace mcgrade


My heart feels heavy and full of blood, pulsing waves of euphoria and grief to the tips of my fingers, wilted petals.

Our trajectory has split. I live in golden days and silver nights and I no longer crave the taste of your cyanide lips. I am accompanied by my pretendings, imaginations and dreams- all more lasting and defined than the folding shadows you carry.

My flesh finds you familiar and my teeth remember your name- but the fire is tired, and I have no care to chase after embers and sparks that have been soaked in your spirit.

My stomach no longer growls when yours does, and we dream separately again. Even when our elbows and fingers are pinned and sewn together, and your blushing head is buried in my bosom, I feel tides of allure for more drawing me far, far away.

I follow signs of serpents from angels, callings of curtains of willow and moths, silhouettes of castles visible through prisms of mist.

I still want you to long for me, and maybe thats cruel. I want you to see the opalic sun spots in my eyes, the jewelled insects on my hands and hear the echo of my boots when I walk away. I want you to feel my unquiet rage, but also my undying love, as infinite and iridescent as the beckoning ocean.



THRESHOLD SPACE by grace mcgrade

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Scotland felt like home before I arrived. Halos of golden light descending onto endless aisles of plush soil, pathways to cathedrals of trees; Spraying color through leaves like champagne. prisms of shadow threaded through the morning ether.

The Mossy troths and moors and freckled with dew and silver lichen, hollow tree trunks and mushroom caves, plush beds of sprouting emeralds and limes, dusted with wild flowers and yellow cacti that smell like coconut.

There is an air of change about. It is the bridge between seasons, unsettling, flickering boldly with the spark of possibilities. The summer sun begins to shorten, leaving a shading of uncertainty across the land. I am on the brink of immense change, and my body can feel it.

In the space between fragile memories I speculate all the things I could have said and done but didn’t in my time here. And I decide everything is just as it should be.

I have been given the gift of restored imagination and vision- the space for me to dream up all that life could be, something free of the structures and limitations of anything manmade. I yearn for something that mirrors the impossibility and connectivity of nature. To be in communion with nature, and therefore in communion with pattern, the organic ebb and flow life follows with fearless improbability.

Once you wake up, you can’t go back to sleep. Even if you want to.

I believe there is a part of everyone that is all knowing, perhaps even existing above time. Perhaps, aware that in waking up, we have to take radical responsibility for everything happening in our reality. This is no easy truth. Suddenly, every thought, subconscious desire, even atom thin, buried in the tumultuous folds of the psyche - is weaving our worlds. Intricate and massively intelligent, propelling faster than the speed of light.

Everything is symbolic, even the most microscopic of details will mirror your macrocosm. Everything that has happened and will happen is within your control. You are a complicit designer in the tapestry of your ornate life. The story can be your own.

Take back the story. Be your own salvation.

I am in threshold space, returning to Los Angeles, following tethered threads that connect me to a past that has lost it’s allure and color. I worry about this barren wasteland of endless entertainment- the compulsion to be a part of the show. To do your part for the distraction. I don’t think most of us realize that we want to create rather than distract, but we are regurgitating and repeating culture. We are being entertained and distracted into the apocalypse. Lubed up to numbly accept our planets demise, assuming the only thing left to participate in is the show, the grand illusion.

So we wait, giggling and drooling with glazed eyes, speaking less, feeling less, escaping more. I don’t want to contribute to this illusion any longer. I don’t want to put the fucking virtual reality headset on.

I want to leave having fought and expunged every last breath of resistance against the rape of my planet. I want to have immersed my senses, to have explored mysteries and drank unknown waters, to have cried out for the truth and wept for consciousness.

Not to imitate some half-lived 2D idea that has been vomited on a loop by Hollywood.

Siren by grace mcgrade

  He told me I was like a Siren. A Siren who had lured him away from his journey, who had stolen him into the sea. At first, I was flattered, picturing a mermaid with translucent jade skin, dusted with champagne sunlight and sea foam, with hair wild and cheeks aflame, enveloped in tendrils of purple seaweed. I saw it the way I saw everything else, like a story.     As our relationship developed I saw that he spoke of something carnivorous, fatally provocative. Emitting demonic fumes, like a venus fly trap, until I could lure him into a bottomless cave. Only to envelop him, chew him, swallow him and spit him back up in splinters and fragments of flesh that sprayed across the midnight surface, engulfed by the oceans tongue. Perilous and hungry for men. This is the Siren he spoke of.     He said wanted sink into me, deep, heavy, like melting in a witches brew, like dissolving into the stars, sorcerous, and intertwined like celtic knots.     I was seen as a pitstop on his heroic journey, the temptation to his messiah, a side effect to his immaculate vigor. He was unable to view me in my totality, as separate and soverign.    As a woman, you are not supposed to be aware of the potency of your own sexual power. This is why we were burned at the stake.     The more I do away with convention in search of expression and comfort the more beautiful I become. This scares him.     I am wild, hot blooded, elusive, angry and untamed. I will not be small or discreet or apologetic. I am the snake that unfurls and riles through the dirt and I fit into the places you don’t want or expect me to. I overflow and seep into the earth, melt like wax and beat the breath of the moon. My sex is my power. In my body I carry the allure of the feminine that drives all nature. You can try to assign me as the characters you need to act out and exorcise your trauma. The traumas from your mother, her mother and the great mother.     Try, and I will haunt you in aromatic memory, and leave you in a garden of agonies to rot and ferment.

He told me I was like a Siren. A Siren who had lured him away from his journey, who had stolen him into the sea. At first, I was flattered, picturing a mermaid with translucent jade skin, dusted with champagne sunlight and sea foam, with hair wild and cheeks aflame, enveloped in tendrils of purple seaweed. I saw it the way I saw everything else, like a story.

As our relationship developed I saw that he spoke of something carnivorous, fatally provocative. Emitting demonic fumes, like a venus fly trap, until I could lure him into a bottomless cave. Only to envelop him, chew him, swallow him and spit him back up in splinters and fragments of flesh that sprayed across the midnight surface, engulfed by the oceans tongue. Perilous and hungry for men. This is the Siren he spoke of.

He said wanted sink into me, deep, heavy, like melting in a witches brew, like dissolving into the stars, sorcerous, and intertwined like celtic knots.

I was seen as a pitstop on his heroic journey, the temptation to his messiah, a side effect to his immaculate vigor. He was unable to view me in my totality, as separate and soverign.

As a woman, you are not supposed to be aware of the potency of your own sexual power. This is why we were burned at the stake.

The more I do away with convention in search of expression and comfort the more beautiful I become. This scares him.

I am wild, hot blooded, elusive, angry and untamed. I will not be small or discreet or apologetic. I am the snake that unfurls and riles through the dirt and I fit into the places you don’t want or expect me to. I overflow and seep into the earth, melt like wax and beat the breath of the moon. My sex is my power. In my body I carry the allure of the feminine that drives all nature. You can try to assign me as the characters you need to act out and exorcise your trauma. The traumas from your mother, her mother and the great mother.

Try, and I will haunt you in aromatic memory, and leave you in a garden of agonies to rot and ferment.