Do not pray for me, you righteous pilgrim. I beg you not to mistake this momentary glimpse into my psychic depths as an open invitation to set up camp within the warm, wet fairy tale forest of my subconscious. You don’t have my permission to raise your brows and cock your head at my darkness. Come in, but you are not allowed to stay. Light no altar candle unless it is to burn your pity alive, good riddance. Bite your puritanical tongue until it bleeds. Keep your helping hands in your pockets, and I will share with you my most macabre, most wicked secret.
Ready yourself, pilgrim, for these are not the mundane musings of an angelic scribe or pompous prophet. Pour yourself something strong and take a seat. The sunlit road has you weary, and you tire of tamer stories and happily-ever-afters. I have some bitter indulgence for you, my love. I am hiking up my skirt and tucking it between my legs. Lean close enough to feel the sweet musk of my breath on your face and see the demonic flecks of silver in my eyes.
Rest now, pilgrim. Rest, and squint into the milky moonlight of my glamour.
My secret is this, and I will not qualify it with a half-hearted sometimes or diminish its merit with small words: There is a part of me that longs to die bare-breasted in Autumn with wine stains on my lips, laden with a heavy crown of antlers and squeezing a tough-skinned lover between my thighs. You may think this part of me is pathological, in dire need of a pill or a prayer, but I assure you she is the most luscious, alive, and impassioned creature I house within my cobwebbed rib cage.
She longs to die with a chill wind on her skin and the eyes of hungry ghosts on her spiraling hips. Her climax is her legacy, the breathlessness of her lover her eulogy, and a majestic hoard of lust-filled specters her pallbearers who carry her satiated soul into the mist.
Pilgrim, there is a part of me who longs to die in Winter watching my oil lamp burn low and surrounded by the crumbled pages of half-written stories telling of warrior Priestesses and their sure-footed, lupine familiars. Alone she is. Forgotten she will be, and her spirit will wander the snow-covered streets wearing a Venetian mask and whispering tales she thought too trite to tell when she was alive into the ears of awakened children. She will haunt the houses of writers and bid them speak their truths before the worms gnaw at their lithe fingers, and, like her, they die with wild, epic, unspoken anthologies in their hearts.
There is a part of me who longs to die in Spring, to be torn apart by a storm so great its destruction ends all wars, makes absent fathers return home to their babes, corrupt rulers repent of their sins against our resplendent Earth, and caged animals break free of their torturous prisons and reclaim their carved-up land. The flesh from my limbs will feed beasts from all four corners of our wounded world, and my head will roll into the ocean and bob about in the waves before resting finally inside an undersea cave inhabited by a seal-skinned monster they denied existed. My skull will be its most prized possession, and it will lick around my eye sockets every night and curl its tail through my jawbone.
Close your mouth, pilgrim. I’m nearly finished. Toss the rest of that whiskey back and listen up.
There is a part of me who longs to die in the heat of Summer on an ancient battlefield covered in the blood of cowards who sit on golden thrones. The Morrigan’s crows will sit on my shoulders and silently write avian poetry about the final fight of the great Witches’ war, and I will wipe the guts of the slain from their wings before they pinch my skin in their beaks and carry my heavy broken body to a mossy river bank; there, the flowing water will rush my soul into the ethereal infinite while I whisper-hum the battle hymns of wild women.
You’ve emptied your glass, and that’s all I have for you today, pilgrim. Get out. I have living to do in this soft skin of mine, and you are not invited into my hedonistic garden of delights. No matter the season, my still-breathing body is a sacred ache and living benediction. I’m doing you a favor. Believe me. You may have lived through a few tales of my moonlit dark, but you would drown in the dripping, ruby-raw brilliance of my light.
Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...