The Feral Girl

The feral girl.

The grieving woman.

The romantic.

The destroyer.

The one who wants to disappear into the woods forever.

The one who wants to dance barefoot under neon lights until sunrise.

The one still aching for something she cannot even name.

And all of them are hungry.

Hungry for touch.

For meaning.

For a life so vivid it stains.

Sometimes it feels unbearable,

this endless wanting.

Like my heart was built without a dimmer switch.

Like I was born without the thin protective layer

other people seem to have.

Everything gets in.

The beauty.

The loss.

The loneliness.

The desire.

Especially the desire.

To devour life whole

before it disappears from my hands.

So yes,

some nights the weight of being alive

rests on my chest so heavily

I can barely breathe beneath it.

But beneath the ache

there is still this:

A pulse.

Wild and relentless.

A refusal to become numb

just because feeling hurts.