I am not a quiet woman.

I am angry, I am loud, I am brash – inelegant.

I am present, I am earth, the smelled, seen, heard –

the dirt nestled in the gentle crease where leg meets hip, the gossamer strings of cobwebs kissed with the salt of unshed tears.

I am warmth,

the heat of a blacksmith’s forge, heavy hands curled around unruly flames, the shudder of breath cradled by evening frost.

I am sharp steel teeth, jaw carved from metal hinges,

tongue the bite of a knife’s swage into unforgiving flesh.

I am blood in a throat scratched raw,

crimson fingernails seeking respite in taut muscle, the gauzy splatter of an inkblot by a tired calligrapher’s hand.

I am ceaseless, but not infinite.