She scavenges the edges of my dreams,
gathering what I once discarded—
digging through what I buried
just to be remembered.
She cracks me open
to ask—
What did you trade this time for belonging?

She brings her treasures to the fire
and lays them out as sacred offerings:
a rib,
a collarbone,
a shattered pelvis,
a broken heart.

She studies each scar
with a knowing older than language,
traces the smooth places,
the stitched fissures—
nods,
as the stories echo
through the still and crackling air.

Then—
she laughs.
Uncontained.
Shameless.
Her irreverence shocks the silence.

She howls.
She grunts.
She spits into the flame.
She hums a low, haunting tune—
half lullaby, half spell—
and she dances.

Her feet pound a rhythm
that disrupts the comfort of my life,
each step a question:
Who are you beneath their stories?
What of your life when it no longer fits the mold?
How long will you let them name you?

She is the trickster
who shuts it all down when I’ve gone silent.
She breaks what I’ve built
if it cages me.

She is not here to comfort,
but to awaken.

The bones begin to stir.
to rise.
to remember.

She sings the song of creation,
calling each fragmented piece
back into wholeness.

Because she knows—
knows in the wild pulse of our blood—
that safe and tame
is no place
to rewild a soul

.