Catch Me If You Can

Posted by Angela Gallo on

Dive into the Phoenix’s Nest once again for some pure poetry magic. 

This is a short one to get you re-centered, re-aligned, and ready to conquer.

Get a glimpse into my mind and catch me if you can.


Catch me if you can. 

I am a wild woman. The only time I could hold the word, "virginal" to my own was upon realizing that this body had never been and could never be inhabited by anything, but me. 

I am as wild as wild can be. Idle hands would be the death of me. Listless feet would steal the dance from underneath me. Stagnancy would mangle the melody within each sheet of music I etched into my skin, with rusty nails that I found and forged on the stairway to heaven. Within each sheet of music, I wrote with notes I found, the beautiful mess I made, while I relentlessly pursued my passions.

"Feral," they'll say, in a body that feels both foreign and at home wherever the fuck she goes. In the unambiguous ways I chase sunsets no one else has seen, and the arrogance of adventure, knowing very well, they've all been seen, but aha, none have been seen by eyes like mine. Therefore, not only has every sunset been painted just for me, every sunset is waiting for my eyeballs to be seen. No one on this planet can look at the sun the way the sun looks at me.

"Unladylike," they'll say, in the ways I inhale smog on the back of motorbikes, gulping it in like the perfume seeping from my pores, whilst throwing caution to the winds of Bangkok. Untamed in the ways I choose to fuck, a tongue lost in the mouth I make love to. The same tongue leaving you at a loss for words over the Mai Tais we lose our minds to, under the seductions of palms in Waikiki.

I like it fast and I like it hard, sweaty, and still sophisticated in the plight of a three-day flight to a place I've never been. Calling to my insides like an old friend begging me to come home. Like the bee moving to the sticky honey, I alchemize. When I fed my babies that have a lifetime of unquenchable thirst, the vanilla bursting at my breasts. Breasts touched by God, by bodies on the beach at midnight, by every carnal affair English couldn't translate. That only the language of bodies transcending dimensions could convey.

Baby, I like it vulgar. With a side of Sweet Gelato and the graffiti decorated story streets of Naples. With the burning lips of too much chili in the soup made out of a shoebox in Cambodia. The kind of heat that reminded me what it meant to be alive. On a shoestring budget screaming, "I have no fucking idea how I am going to get there, but I'll be damned if I don't." Meet me there or feel what it feels like to be left behind by the wild woman.


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