To realise self is to command
To command self is to live.
Devouring birds may not get a look to see her, ripen and stomach to their fill her delicacy. I mean, desire for debauchery averted. Good riddance, yes?
There is a sorrow that nature speaks of when form and expression is bound.
She wriggles in pain weeks long, trudging along the wilderness of confusion, conflation of existential wishes.
Rounded with light and freedom.
Well aware of her proclivities
Chooses her excesses.
To deny her is to pour acid on her humanity.
The fruits are her parts.
The world is the vineyard.
The thorns are prejudice, stereotypes and regressive traditions.